


The Romanticization of Sherlock Holmes

by Maeerin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fake Character Death, First Kiss, First Time, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Medical stuff, POV Multiple, Post-Reichenbach, Sickfic, Trauma, Written before season 3, character injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:12:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after Sherlock's fall, John Watson begins seeing the fallen detective. Is it just a hallucination or something more? Eventually, the detective and his blogger reunite and are faced with a relapse of old habits, a declaration of sentiments, and none other than Sebastian Moran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first 5 chapters have been written already, but I would still love to know what you think as each one is posted. 
> 
> It is partially inspired by Grey's Anatomy, season 5, but you don't have to watch that to understand what is going on, that is just where I got the idea. The quotes at the beginning of each chapter are from Grey's Anatomy and work as a kind of thesis or monologue for each chapter.
> 
> As for the medical plot, I did research as much as I could for symptoms and treatment, but please remember it may have been emphasized for fiction.
> 
> Ratings may change.
> 
> I don't own any of these characters.
> 
> For updates, you can follow me on tumblr at maeerin.tumblr.com
> 
> Enjoy :) 
> 
> ~ Em

CHAPTER 1

  _“Sometimes it takes a huge loss to remind you of what you care about the most. Sometimes you find yourself becoming stronger as a result, wiser, better equipped to deal with the next big disaster that comes along. Sometimes. But not always.” – Meredith Grey_

 _“Sherlock!”_ _The man in question, the consulting detective, the freak, the man in the funny hat, the man that stood on the rooftop of St. Bart’s spread his arms out like wings and fell. The bone-crushing thud of his collision to the ground was blocked out by thunder that came after no forewarning lightening flash._ _His colleague, his blogger, his only friend ran towards him, time and motion slowing down as he ran and ran as fast as he could to his fallen friend. Before he could reach him, lightening flashed in the skies above, immediately followed by a roar of thunder rolling in the light grey clouds._

A yell rang around him as John Watson sat upright in his bed, tangled in his bed sheets. His eyes were wide as he stared out into blackness; they were glazed over and distant for a moment longer before a wave of consciousness hurled over him, softening the hardness of his face just a fraction. The doctor’s breathing quickened its pace as his heart thudded with realization: it was just a dream—a horrendous repeat of the previous night, and the one before that, and the others that came every time he closed his eyes for the past six months.

It wasn’t until the sunrise began to stream its early rays through the destitute window when John noticed a figure, fitted in a tailored suit almost to sculpted perfection, perched on the end of his bed.

John let out a staggering breath as he observed the figure. The lean body and dark tailored suit was sharply cut by the severed sunrays that peaked through the buildings into the window of the flat. His black iron curls fell limp upon the pale forehead, contrasting tragically against his pale complexion, however this time it was more of a deathly paleness that blanketed the detective’s face. John observed his side profile; the man’s body was facing the closet on the opposite wall, his face shadowed with such blankness, John could have sworn he was faceless.

 But it was undeniably Sherlock Holmes—Sherlock who remained still, yet for the first time in John’s eyes, it was sadness that leaked through the cracks of Sherlock’s face. John observed him for a moment longer before he let out another choked sigh and then settled back down onto the dull pillow, eyes blank and staring at the ceiling.

“John.”

The doctor let out a startled gasp. Now that was odd. Previous hallucinations were merely illusions, memories from the mind fragmented into present day and wrapped into reality to fool the mind. They had been blurred with uncertainly, and gone before another moment past. They had never, ever spoke before. That is, until now.

“John.” The figure spoke again, his eyes still facing the closet wall.

Abruptly John climbed out of bed, made his way past the figure, and headed towards the bathroom.

_I must be losing my mind._

 

John thought to himself as he ignored the solid hallucination and proceeded with his normal morning routine. (He had to be at the surgery in an hour). John’s hand shook slightly with the tremor, and he fumbled with the toothpaste cap and dropped it on the floor. He knelt down and picked it up, and then, straightening back up, he looked into the mirror only to have his breath taken away.

 

Sherlock was reflected, his grey eyes staring back at John. The doctor whipped around but found himself face to face with nothing. No one was there. With a slow intake of air, John turned back around and finished his routine. He left for work in a hurry.

 

* * *

John managed to grab a taxi outside of his downgraded flat despite the early morning rush hour. Seated in the back and trying to clear his head, John settled in, recovering still from the rough morning. The cab took a different route without John noticing and suddenly he found himself stuck in traffic, in front of St. Bart’s.

 John stared in utter disbelief at the pavement where his friend had fallen. There standing in his dark tailored suit, his eyes glistening with life, was Sherlock.

John gasped softly and looked away, his eyes wide and swimming with utter shock.

_Sherlock is dead. He died six months ago. This is just one of my hallucinations that have clearly gone to the extreme and have become more vivid. I’m not going crazy. I’m not crazy…_

Finally he made it to the surgery and rushed out of the cab after tossing the exact fee to the driver. John made his way hurriedly through the lobby and into the office, not responding to any greetings he got from the front desk.

By the time he was settled in his office, patients were already filling up the lobby.

_Good. A distraction._

 

* * *

 After countless patients, John’s lunch break arrived. He decided to eat alone in his office whilst he finished some paperwork. A sense of fulfillment—a heartwarming wave of inner peace—washed over him in a matter of a minute, and immediately he knew he wasn’t alone. Pursing his lips, John went back to his paperwork, his eyes focused but inert.

“Don’t be ridiculous John, it’s _obvious_ you are ignoring me.” Said the baritone voice in front of him. John blinked and exhaled a shaky breath before replying to the apparition.

“You’re dead. You’re not here. You’re not real.”

“I’m here. I’m here for you John.”

John blinked again. He remained silent for another moment longer, staring incomprehensively at the paperwork. Finally, he looked up.

There he was. Right in front of him. Solid. Everything about his appearance was accurate—everything reminiscent of the last time John had seen him alive in person.

Even his expression was accurate. His mouth was in a mid-twitch; a half smile, half smirk laid cleanly on that angular face. His eyes glistened with life; beaming with the high of a case. All of his face was frozen like a painting of annoyance and enjoyment.

John brought himself back to reality and sighed. He was going crazy…or either having a _very_ lucid dream. Clearly, what he saw in front of him were just fragments from his memory, pieced together to fool him. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

John opened his mouth to speak but his voice was caught in his throat.

“You’re not…this is—.”

“John, don’t stutter. It isn’t appealing of you.” Said the familiar nagging voice from the man in front of him.

John stared at him. He felt a familiar twinge of anger rising up in his chest—an anger he hadn’t felt in months—the anger that would come about whenever he came across a body part in the fridge or something like that.

_This is from memory. My memory. I know what he is like—was._

Sherlock moved like his graceful self and paced over to the center of the room, in front of John’s desk. The doctor was unaware that he subconsciously followed him with his gaze, straining his neck. He lowered his face away from Sherlock, however his eyes had a mind of their own and were kept fixed on the detective.

“You’re not real. You’re just a hallucination. Now go away—jus-just go.” John said, his eyes darting to the door then back to Sherlock.

“I’m here for you John.”

John raised his head and gaped at Sherlock. _He never repeated himself. Ever. Why would he be doing that now?_

John looked away and began to collect his things. He needed to leave. Now.

“Don’t go—.”

“What do you want Sherlock? Why are you here? Don’t you have any better place to be than _here_?”

Sherlock looked at John with such admiration and pity all at once, John cursed in his mind. The detective was showing too much emotion, even John’s memory couldn’t make that up.

“You don’t think I’m actually here do you.” Sherlock stated in his matter-of-fact tone.

Before John could respond, Sherlock held out a hand. “Go on and touch it.”

John gaped at Sherlock. “No I’m not going to—Sherlock, just—enough! Okay? I’m going to go home and take the rest of the day off—.”

“I’m just going to follow you John. I’m here. I’m here for you—.”

“Stop saying that! You never repeat yourself, so why are you repeating yourself now?”

“John…touch me.” Sherlock said with such demanding tone that before John could stop his own body’s yearning, his hand shot up and grasped the detective’s.

John gasped. He could feel skin against his. It felt familiar…

“No this isn’t…it’s not you—you were dead—you were…” John stuttered before the familiarity sparked a reasonable explanation. He cleared his throat before going on, his eyes locked into Sherlock’s piercing gaze and his hand slowly drifting away from the other.

“I’ve held your hand before. It’s just a memory. Just a memory.” He whispered, his mind blazing with confusion over the sudden wave of disappointment he felt in the back of his head.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a grin before settling back down. He leaned closer; John could feel warmth surround him.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “then why don’t we do something we’ve never done before?”

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, begging for this to all be just a dream. He felt a loss of sensation in his ability to pull away and with one final weak tug John fell into Sherlock’s arms, pressing his lips unto Sherlock’s, gently at first then passionately.

They slowly rocked back and forth; John tightened his hold on Sherlock’s shoulders as he raised his one hand and cupped the detective’s jaw. Sherlock placed his free hand on John’s lower back and pulled him closer. He parted his lips slightly, enough to invite John deeper, who accepted without hesitation.

Suddenly John pulled away with a sharp huff. His mind was spinning— _this couldn’t be happening…it’s just an illusion, just a trick. There’s no way this could be real, seriously…Sherlock didn’t even feel the same way…he is—was—married to his work. I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here now!_

John sprinted off; jacket half on as he ran out the door into the lobby.

“Hey! Sarah, I’m not feeling well I need to take the rest of the day.”

Without waiting for a response but only catching a slight nod of understanding out of the corner of his eye, John left without looking back.

 

* * *

 Back at his small flat, John immediately brewed himself some tea and slouched on the end of bed, cup in hand. Almost within the second, a wave of comfort washed over him as Sherlock stood in front of him. He didn’t bother sitting down; John looked up without a second thought.

"Why are you here? Why aren’t you in…heaven or somewhere…else?” John asked.

“I-I don’t know. I didn’t think heaven existed but now…I thought maybe this is it. I think you might be my heaven John.”

Before John could form respond, the detective cupped his blogger’s jaw and kissed him again.

The tea cup fell loosely from John’s palm as he too brought his hands up and cupped both sides of Sherlock’s jaw, his fingers carelessly lingering over Sherlock’s neck, caressing it gently as he kissed the phantasm back.

…

The first thing John was aware of a few hours later was dark flat and an aching neck from falling asleep only halfway on the bed.

The second thing was that he was alone. Irrational fear ached in his chest as he stood up and looked around the room.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!”

“I’m here.”

John spun around to the man in question. 

“Jesus Christ! Don’t-don’t do that! You can’t just disappear an-and leave me like that.”

“It’s okay John. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for you.”

John pursed his lips and clenched his fists. His temper was rising and he must look like a fool for having a row with a ghost. This couldn’t go on, it just couldn’t. He’d go mad if he began a relationship with a ghost. It was absurd.

“You fell asleep while I kissed you. Not really sure where your charming nickname comes from.”

“My—oh never mind. We—we can’t do it again.”

“Do what?” Sherlock asked as he leaned in and stole away whatever words John was about to say with a chaste kiss.

John leaned into the kiss for a moment before pulling away abruptly. “That! What we just---kissing! Everything. You can’t be here, you need to leave. Now.”

“You wish it didn’t happen.”

“…No—no! I-I wish it had happened when you were alive but now…it’s too late.”

“Do you love me John?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

John blinked at him, his heartbeat quickening. “I-I…” John paused and then thought ‘fuck it’.

“I do, Sherlock. I love you. But this can’t continue on because…” John paused again, his voice trembling. “I love you.” He choked out. “But it’s unhealthy Sherlock. It’s like you’re in me—I-I feel like you’re really there, like what I felt whenever you walked into a room when you were alive, but it’s also like you’re a-a d-disease and I can’t think clearly. This isn’t right.” John sniffed and held back the tears threatening to stream down. “I had just begun to move on but now that you’re here again, you’re still not truly here. I wanted this, but it’s too late now. You’re dead and I need to live my life Sherlock.”

“Are you ending this--whatever this is—are you ending it, John?”

 John inhaled deeply and then let out a trembling sigh.

“Yes.”

Sherlock stared at him and then closed his eyes. After a moment, he reopened them, this time, expressing defeat. “I’m sorry John. I can’t go.”

 

\----

For the next month, the hallucination never vanished. Not for one waking moment was John at ease, not given a glimpse of what reality was like without Sherlock Holmes. Even if he was actually dead. At the surgery, at the flat, in the street, even out at the pub with Mike or Greg, there Sherlock was, following John this time. As time went on, ignoring the man was evolving into the impossible. There was not a day that went by where John would snap harsh orders to ‘shut up’ under his breath, ignoring the concerned glances from Greg or accusing ones from passing strangers.

By the end of the month, the last of John’s patience dried out—becoming a complete and utter desert.

“John.”

The man ignored the other. _He is a hallucination. Time for him to leave now._

“John.”

The doctor pursed his lips and looked up to the detective.

“Not now I’m working.”

“What wrong with you? Something happen or…”

John looked down, his eyes unfocused on the paperwork. “What do you mean?”

“You’re ignoring me. Quite rudely mind you. You weren’t this cold before.”

“Before?"

“Before I died.”

“Oh so now you admit it.” John looked up, amusement and annoyance gleaming wildly in his eyes—mockingly. “What do you mean cold?”

“Oh John must you need an explanation for everything? A children’s dictionary?”

John glared at him then looked back down, his eyes focusing back to the paperwork.

“John!”

“What!?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“You’ve got to be joking? You’re Sherlock Holmes, you should know what’s wrong with me before I do myself! Why don’t you just think?”

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes darting back and forth. He opened his mouth and then closed it, rethinking his conclusion.

Before he could respond however, John interrupted his thoughts.

“Why can’t…you leave?” John asked slowly, looking down still.

“I told you I’m here—.”

“No! No—!” John gulped before he continued in a threatening whisper:

“Do you… want to know what is wrong? What’s happened to me, Sherlock? Why I’m so cold, so distant—why I’m trying to ignore you? You want to know what happened to me? You, YOU HAPPENED TO ME!”

John roared to the hallucination in his office, and he found himself standing up, towering over the seated ghost. He grabbed the lapels of Sherlock’s shirt and tugged him forward so he was standing up too, the shorter man now looking up.

“I can feel you. Your skin against mine. I can smell you. Feel your heart beating underneath my hands. You’re here but you’re not. So tell me what the fuck is going on because I’ve just about lost it.”

Before he could respond, there was a knock at the door.

“John?” Sarah called through the door. “Everything alright?”

John remained quiet for a moment, glaring up at Sherlock. He took the moment to compose himself and then released his hold and went to the door, opening it to see Sarah.

“Hi Sarah, do you need something?” John asked calmly.

Sarah looked at him with concern. “No I just heard you shouting. Everything alright?”

John blinked at her as he tried to steady his voice. “Everything’s fine. Do you mind, since its not too busy here, if I take the rest of the day off?”

“Of course, no problem John.”

“Great, thank you Sarah.”

John closed the door and proceeded in gathering his things. Without a glance back, he left the hallucination, who was still standing with a tense expression across his face. On his way home, wasn’t long after when he caught sight of Sherlock resting against a wall in an alley.

“John.”

John clenched his fists and then stepped into the alley, resting against the wall beside the detective.

“I’ll help you…figure it out.”

“You can’t just tell me?”

"No.”

"John nodded. “Why are you here?” He asked one final time.

Sherlock stepped in front of John and locked their gazes. “I’m here for you.”

John gaped at Sherlock. _Fuck him. Why was he repeating himself?”_

“Think John.”

“I don’t know—.”

“John! You’re a doctor. _Figure it out_.” The detective said sternly.

Several minutes pass and then after all this time, it finally dawned on him.

“You’re here _for_ me. You’re here so I won’t be alone because I—” John began, his voice shaking with understanding.

Sherlock’s face fell with relief and pity. He slowly nodded.

John drew a sharp intake of air. “I’m sick. I’m sick…  th-there’s something physically w-wrong with me…” John stuttered, anger rising in his chest.

“Yes.”

“And instead of telling me…instead—of—you-you—.” John spluttered, his body trembling.

The detective reached a hand forward. “John I—.”

“Don’t touch me! I-I h-hate you! I HATE YOU! I—GO AWAY, go away now—just—you can leave now!”

Sherlock blinked at John as the realization dawned on him. “I can. I can now John, but—.”

“GO AWAY!”

Sherlock sighed. “Okay…but John……I…I don’t know if I can come back.” Sherlock said, his voice trembling completely out of character.

John stared at Sherlock, but he wasn’t disappearing. “Good because I don’t want to see you anymore. I want to live so…go now! Leave! I-I _don’t_ want to see you anymore!”

Sherlock bit his lip—unlike himself again—and stepped back.

“Alright…by first…”

He suddenly stepped forward and leaned John against the wall. He pressed his lips among the doctor’s, tenderly yet chaste. Before John could kiss him back completely, Sherlock stepped back. By the time John opened his eyes he was gone.

John slumped against the wall, fighting off a whimper. He couldn’t take it any longer and allowed the tears to fall down his cheeks. He stayed slumped against the wall for a while, while a man in a trench coat watched him from across the street.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is shorter than the first, and chapter 3 is also short. But 4 and 5 are long. This was written months before season 3, yet afterwards I did some editing and there are small, minor parallels to season 3. 
> 
> A bit of angst and emotional John -- don't worry it'll lighten up soon! 
> 
> Quote in the beginning is from Grey's Anatomy, but you don't have to watch that to read this. 
> 
> WARNING: Some language
> 
> For updates, check my tumblr: maeerin.tumblr.com
> 
> Enjoy :)
> 
> ~EM

 

_“There’s a reason I said I’d be happy alone. It wasn’t because I thought I’d be happy alone. It was because I thought if I loved someone and then it fell apart, I might not make it. It’s easier to be alone because what if you learn that you need love and you don’t have it. What if you like it and lean on it? What if you shape your life around it and then it falls apart? Can you even survive that kind of pain? Losing love is like organ damage. It’s like dying. The only difference is death ends. This? It could go on forever.” – Meredith Grey_

 

 

The consulting detective observed from a distance as his only friend wept in an alleyway. John stayed like that for several minutes before he finally composed himself and continued his way back to his flat.

Sherlock didn’t follow him. Instead, he turned the other direction and pulled out his phone.

“Hello brother. We need to talk.”

 …

 

At the office of Mycroft Holmes’ someone casually walking by would be taken aback like they had seen a ghost, only to see that it is truly his younger brother sitting in front of him and not a ghost at all.

“So you’re alive.”

“Clearly.”

“I had my thoughts—.”

“Of course.”

“…and we noticed known members and others of Moriarty’s web were being taken care of ever since you fell…”

“I did it to make sure John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would be safe. I didn’t ask to meet with you to discuss my obvious motives as to why I was presumed dead.” Sherlock said coldly.

“Are they all taken care of?”

“Not exactly…there is one still out there. Sebastian Moran. He was known to be the closest with Moriarty however has yet to know I’m alive. He has noticed other contacts have…disappeared off the grid, however hasn’t suspected me yet.”

“And he doesn’t suspect John? To be the one dismantling the network?”

“I wouldn’t think so. I managed to track him back here in London where I found out he was checking on John, proving to himself that it isn’t him behind the damage.”

Mycroft stared at his brother. They remained silent for a moment before jumping to the point.

“So are you going to tell John?”

“Not until Moran is taken care of.”

“Then why—.”

“I’m worried about him, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s jaw clenched. “Something is wrong with him. I saw him in an alleyway talking to someone that wasn’t there. He wasn’t on the phone and judging by his appearance, he looked like he was in some kind of distress. I suspect he may be…sick.” Sherlock deduced; his tone remaining still and expressionless.

"I see…and you want me to…check up on him. Collect his medical files."

“Anything to keep him safe until I finish with Moran. You must keep me posted.”

“You’ve grown to care for him. Perhaps even love—.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Oh please Mycroft, don’t bore me with your lectures on sentiment.”

 Mycroft sighed. “I’ve always said not to get involved.”

“I’m not a child anymore.”

“No. No you’re not. But Sherlock, the sooner you’re honest with yourself, the better.”

[Two weeks later.]

Sherlock’s phone rang. He snatched it from off the table and answered it immediately.

“Hello.” Sherlock said instead of his normal answering greeting of his name.

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft. Any news?”

“How are things…with Moran?”

“Tricky. Any news on John?”

“It’s not good Sherlock. Not the worse either, but otherwise, not the best.”

“What is it?” Sherlock asked persistently.

Mycroft sighed; almost in a sympathetic way but it was hard to tell over the phone. “He has a brain tumor. It’s in a tricky area and his chances are pretty much 50/50.”

Sherlock stared, frozen, at the wall as his brain process this information. After several minutes, he came back to his senses.

“When—er, when will he be having surgery?”

“Sherlock…I’m not sure…as of now he hasn’t made any attempts in even treating it—.”

“What? How stupid can he be? You need to talk to him! Or tell Harry! Yes, Mycroft, contact his sister! I doubt he told her the whole truth if anything at all! He doesn’t want to worry her or to ask for help because that is the kind of person he is, he’ll feel useless and cumbersome. He has a chance! He _needs_ to be treated Mycroft!”

“I’ll do my best Sherlock—.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I need to go. I need to see John.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

John stood still, tense but poised. He stared at the gravestone that rested in front him. He shifted his weight and opened his mouth, but then closed it when his lips began to tremble. John composed himself, closing his eyes just a blink longer than usual.

“So…” John cleared his throat in attempt to hold back rising tide of a cry. “It’s been…about eight months since you…”

“I still don’t know why. I don’t know…why you…jumped. I-I don’t even know if I want to know.” John’s mouth twitched in an effort to grin but fell instantly. “Um…I just came here to…I-I don’t know I just…”

 John dropped his chin to his chest and breathed deeply. He sniffed back the leaking tears and then looked back up; only one had escaped and it trailed lonely down his cheek.

“I think…I think I might see you again Sherlock.” John said to the grave, his voice gaining stability however trembling at the last word.

“I’m not sure—I-I don’t know…what to do. I don’t have anything to live for…I don’t have anyone…last time I saw you—well you were a ghost so I don’t even know if that counts—God I don’t know anything, do I? Um, last time…or whatever…I said I wanted to live. And that I never wanted to see you or talk to you again…”

John paused as another tear escaped his eyes without warning and slid down his cheek then falling lonely to the cold ground.

“I didn’t mean it, Sherlock. I would do anything to see you again…but…not like this. Not between two worlds…maybe I can join you. Maybe I can. I just…don’t know…”

John looked at the grave and gave it a slight nod before turning on his heel and limped away. He only made a few steps when he stopped suddenly in his tracks, his eyes widening with a wrath of confusion, relief, shock, and annoyance.

A figure in a black trench coat stood in front of him. His hair was shorter; the curls were tame. He was skinnier; the familiar coat hung more loosely around his waist and hips. Under his grey-blue eyes were bags of exhaustion. His face was the all too familiar expression of both indifference and concern. Each sentiment was being expressed in blinks—almost as if the figure was experiencing a storm of emotion that he didn’t know which to focus on and uncover.

“Sher-Sherlock?” John spluttered out.

The consulting detective stepped closer. “John.”

 John’s face transformed from utter loss to a canvas of sentiment Sherlock could not, for the first time, fathom into a word.

“You’re…here.” John stated.

“Obviously.” Sherlock said. He remained quiet, giving John time to comprehend what was going on. He knew John would need time. 

“You’re here…to help me.” John claimed.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m here…to see you John.”

John’s mouth twitched upwards, forming only half a grin. “Of course you are…um, can you—can you tell me…what to do?”

“Dear John…” Sherlock breathed into a sigh. “…I thought you would naturally know what to do…but um, you could punch me…get it over with.” The detective suggested.

“Um why would I—no I-I don’t—can’t—touch you anymore Sherlock.” John looked away uncomfortably and then looked back into the detective’s eyes with regret. “I wish I could but I can’t—shouldn’t. Um, can you—can you tell me if I should be treated for this…this tumor or not. Would you wait for me?”

“John what are you talking about?” Sherlock asked, his mind blazing with confusion. However, that fire was put out immediately—his heart suddenly racing in his chest as he realized _exactly_ what John was going on about.

_He still thinks I’m a hallucination. He still thinks I’m dead and he wants me to decide what he should do!_

“John…no I’m not—.”

“Please.” John begged.

Sherlock let out a staggering breath as his eyes began to water with utter disbelief.

_Unbelievable sentiment—not now!_

Sherlock looked at John and observed him. _Barely sleeps and when he does it is rare and almost always interrupted with a nightmare. He is depressed and unsure. Not planning for anything doesn’t have anything to live for and will most likely give up…_

Sherlock thought and thought until a plan emerged in his genius of a brain.

_Moran is still out there…maybe if I convince John to accept surgery, he will most likely (and logically) be in a hospital bed so Moran won’t be able to reach him without extreme measures…I can have Mycroft keep an eye on him…but should I tell him I’m alive? If he knows he will have something to live for but then without a doubt he would want to help with catching Moran…if he doesn’t know he wouldn’t want the surgery…but maybe I can convince him that he will not be alone... How can I protect him for just a bit longer? …_

Sherlock breathed heavily and looked back into John’s eyes. They were swimming with tears now, however, with whatever strength he had left, the soldier was not letting them fall.

“John…I need you to accept treatment, okay—.”

John’s lip trembled. “But I’m all alone…”

“No John! You have to do this. You have to do this. For me? Will you John?”

John breathed in shakily as a tear escaped and fell slowly down his check. “I’m all alone…” 

Sherlock tensed and grew frustrated, mostly with himself. “Please John, if you die I don’t think I can forgive you—.”

John’s tightened with a familiar expression: anger. “You won’t forgive me- for-for dying?” He blurted out, his voice rasping with emotion. “You’re fucking threatening me with a potential grudge yet you’re the one who left me. You died in front of me and I haven’t forgiven you for that! I-I was moving on, but then you came here, taunting me, and now I’m dying! I’m dying and hoping I can see you again but you don’t want me to! I’m all-alone—” John choked on the last word as the tears in his eyes vanished for only a moment before coming back and clinging to his eyelashes.

Sherlock bit his lip. “I can’t stay here John. But I—look at me John.” Sherlock insisted desperately. John looked up; he was utterly lost now. Tears were spilling out and falling down his face like rain—he didn’t even bother wiping them away.

Sherlock continued. “I promise John…that you _will_ _not_ be alone. I’ll make sure of it John. We’ll…we’ll see each other soon…”

John continued crying yet furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “B-but y-you’re d-dead—.” 

“I’m right here John.” Sherlock pointed to John’s chest, where his heart laid beneath. “I’m here but you have to promise me you’ll live. For me. Promise?”

John kept his gaze, tears falling slower down his red face. “I p-promise.” He choked out, and then all at once, tears were streaming down is face. He crumbled forward and Sherlock caught him. He tightened his grip around his blogger and held him tightly as he wept into his coat.

After a moment of embrace, Sherlock nudged John away and without another word, the detective walked away; his blogger’s head still down, looking upon the grass as the last couple of tears fell together to the ground.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will post chapter 3 by next Friday if not sooner :) simply because 2 and 3 are shorter than others..
> 
> hope you enjoyed and stay tuned :)
> 
> ~EM


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind this was written months before season 3 aired, though I edited it after. 
> 
> I tend to imagine Harry Watson as Lena Headey/Cersi Lannister, but that's just me.
> 
> This is quite short, so I might update Chapter 4 in a few days or perhaps on Thursday instead of Friday. We'll see :)
> 
> For updates check my tumblr: maeerin.tumblr.com
> 
> Enjoy and please comment! ~ Erin

 

_“Human beings need a lot of things to feel alive. Family…love…sex. But we only need one thing to actually be alive. We need a beating heart. When our heart is threatened, we respond in one of two ways. We either run or we attack. There’s a scientific term for this: fight or flight. It’s instinct. We can’t control it. Or can we?”—Grey’s Anatomy Cast_

 

 

[A few days after the encounter in the graveyard.]

There was a knock at the door unusually early one morning. John, who hadn’t even had his tea yet, sauntered to the door and opened it to the grey, crisp morning air.

He gaped at the figure in the doorway. “Harry?” He stuttered.

His sister smirked and made her way past John into the flat without a word. John closed the door behind him and followed her into the one-room flat.

“What are you doing here?” He asked.

“Nice place. Small, but…” She shrugged as she looked around, her face expressing pity.

“What are you doing here?” He asked again but then cut himself off when he immediately realized the answer. “Oh, Mycroft told you didn’t he?”

“A man…in a suit came to my door, yes. Who is he?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Someone your friend knew?”

John flushed at the mention of Sherlock. Harry noticed of course and her face softened with sympathy. “You miss him still. Sure, you’re moving on but I would expect it would come like waves.”

“It’s not waves,” John said bluntly. “It’s constant. All the time.”

They fell in silence. John spoke again.

“Why did you come over? You could have called first…”

“You think I’d let my brother refuse treatment…or not even tell me that he has a brain tumor himself!” Harry exclaimed.

“I was…going to tell you—.”

“When it would have been too late?” Harry interrupted. John pursed his lips and clenched his fists. He let out a breath in an attempt to relax himself and then unraveled his fists.

“Harry,” He began slowly. “I have a…low chance of surviving at all. Surgery’s risking. It’s complicated.”

“Yeah well I’m sure you would have no doubt in wanting treatment if your friend was alive!"

“Don’t bring him up! I mean it Harry!”

“You have to do this John!”

“I…know…” John lowered his voice and slumped onto the edge of his bed.

“You…will?”

“…I _was_ considering it. I haven’t completely given up. I just…when I first found out, I…I felt like I wanted to live but then…I-I don’t know, I guess I-I realized I don’t have much or anything…to live for. I needed hope. But, um, doctor, er, Shepherd scheduled a meeting to go over the plan regarding surgery…and whether there will be one or a few, so…we’ll see.”

Harry sat beside her brother. She sighed. “It’ll be okay.”

John just nodded.

“How did you—er, find out? I mean, a brain tumor’s kinda rare? Did you recognize the symptoms or something?” Harry asked.

John let out a shaking breath. “Um, actually no, I didn’t. Which is just pathetic because I’m a bloody doctor for crying out loud. But there were…” John hesitated. “There were abnormal things that caught my attention.”

“Like what?” Harry persisted.

“Hallucinations—er, quite vivid ones.” John replied hesitantly.

Harry’s eyes widened slightly. “Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

John sighed. “If you really want to know Harry, he’s standing right in front of us.”

Harry flinched and looked in front of them. Looking back to John, she continued. “Do you…talk to each other?”

“We did—.”

“But not anymore.”

“No we had an argument.”

Harry sniggered but hushed it when John glared at her.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Harry nodded, and in a sympathetic yet out-of-character way, she squeezed her brother’s hand in reassuring that everything was going to be as fine as possible. 

~~~~~~~

 [Two weeks later.]

In a dingy abandoned flat located on the outskirts of London, the consulting detective twitched on a worn out mattress, his eyes glazed over—distant—while his face peeked with such a sickly paleness, it would almost appear that he should be the one in the hospital. Sherlock tightened a tourniquet above his elbow and with only a second of hesitation, he placed the cool tip of the syringe on his skin and injected the cocaine into his craving veins.

A couple hours went by, and as the high began wearing off, Sherlock's phone rang, snapping the detective back into reality.

"Hello...ugh, Mycroft, what..." Sherlock's eyes widened as Mycroft spoke over him. "He  _ _what_?"_

“He signed a DNR form.”

"Why would he do that? Isn't it simple brain surgery, surely his chances aren’t considered to be low enough to convince him to sign _that_ kind of form?”

“Sherlock, I believe it’s just a precaution—his way of making sure his sister won’t have to make any decision regarding…extreme measures…in case anything were to go wrong.

“That’s absurd Mycroft! I—.” Sherlock’s throat quivered just slightly and he held himself back to gain some self-control; he didn’t want to sound weak or _emotionally_ affected by this, especially by the ear of his dear brother. “I need to see him…if it’s really that serious and something happens before I—I just…I need to see him!”

“What about Moran?” Mycroft asked simply, disregarding the obvious attempts his brother was making in trying to compose himself. But he knew better than to comment on them at a time like this.

“He’s off the grid. I haven’t been able to locate him for the past two weeks! John’s surgery is tomorrow morning. I have eight hours. Mycroft can you—”

“I already have people picking up where you left of.”

“Right,” Sherlock let out a shuddering breath. “Thank—good bye Mycroft.” Sherlock hung up the phone before his brother could respond. He immediately abandoned the dingy flat and took off to see John. In the back of his mind, he chose to ignore the fact that it had been four hours since his last dose, and would be showing symptoms of withdrawal soon. He deleted that thought as soon as it crossed his mind—he needed to see John.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Alright Dr. Watson, just count backwards starting from ten, it will be over before you know it.”

Sherlock rushed through the hospital doors of the surgical wing and bee-lined to the front desk. “I need to see Dr. John Watson, now.” He said, with a slight attempt to appear and sound calm.

The nurse looked at him with a slight flicker of suspicion before following with: “Is he a patient—.”

“Yes of course.” Sherlock replied quickly.

“Um, he just went into surgery. He will be done in about five to seven hours, maybe longer, depending on how things go.”

Sherlock stared at her expressionless as he stepped back without another word and seated himself in an uncomfortable chair in the waiting room. For a moment he would have appeared defeated, but the moment passed as quickly as it happened, and the consulting detective straightened back to his usual façade.

He was there for less than five minutes when Harry appeared from the corner and froze in her step, her cup slipping out of her hand and onto the floor with a dull thud, coffee splattering over her shoes.

She gasped softly. “You—.”

Sherlock looked up and immediately knew whom she was. He stood up and spoke. “Ah, Harry I—.”

Before the words were in the air, Harry stepped forward and slapped him clean across the check. He staggered to the side just slightly before composing himself, his check already reddened by the surprise attack. He should of known that that response was a possibility, however he wasn’t expecting it from Harry, only John (and perhaps Lestrade). 

“What the hell are you doing here? _After all this time_?” Harry asked, her brows furrowed furiously, her hands clenched into fists. To Sherlock, she resembled just like John is whenever he and Sherlock had a row because of his tantrums, sulks, or messy experiments lying around in the kitchen. God he missed those days.

“I’m here to see John.” Sherlock replied in that it’s-obvious-you-must-be-some-kind-of-an-idiot tone of his.

Harry glared at him ferociously and replied to him in a threatening whisper. “Don’t think you can just waltz in here and see him. After all he’s been through— _after everything you put him through_.”

“That is exactly what I think. Besides, I have no where else to be and John needs me.”

“He needed you months ago but you were dead!”

“Well clearly,” Sherlock spoke as if pointing out the obvious to idiots like those at Scotland Yard. “I’m not actually dead.”

Harry scoffed. “Why did you come back?”

“My reasons don’t concern you.” Sherlock said sternly.

“It concerns John who concerns me.”

Sherlock bit back the urge to roll his eyes, but gave up immediately and proceeded. Harry scoffed at him again and sat down on the other side of the waiting room, glaring at the detective. Sherlock glared right back at her and in silence they waited.

Four hours later, they had not yet had an update. This could be either good or bad the detective thought. It would be good if the surgeons were focused and too busy to send someone with news. But if it were a bad sign, then perhaps the surgeons were hurriedly trying to control the problem, again too busy to notify him. Nevertheless, Sherlock was starting to fidget. He had the sudden urge to vomit and was sweating profusely underneath his heavy trench coat, despite being quite cool in the hospital. Suddenly, a wave of emotion washed over him; anxiety, worry, dread, excitement, and longing washed over him and it became overwhelming in a panic. He needed to get out. He needed a stimulant. Sherlock ran his hand into his pockets and only felt one last syringe—no cigarettes or patches—just that one vice of his resting against his fingertips. He was going into withdrawal; he knew it would happen sooner or later. The symptoms would only continue and he was in a hospital for God’s sake. Someone with a decent medical knowledge would notice once they got an accurate glimpse of him. He needed it. He needed it now! John still had four hours to go, if not more. He had time. Without a look at Harry, Sherlock sprang out of his seat and nearly galloped out through the hospital doors and out of sight. He barely caught a glimpse of Harry’s reaction, but recognized her expression instantly as disappointment.

Sherlock rushed out of the hospital without looking back and made his way across the street into a back alley. All he could think about was _John. John John John John John._ He vowed to himself this would his last one and then John won’t have to know and he could overcome it on his own. However, deep in his mind he knew he was kidding himself. But whatever doubt he had left in his mind had drowned by the overwhelming crave to escape the sentiment. It was tragic, that Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, had finally felt something, something greater the simple word it takes as its name and chose to disregard it; chose to consider it unrequited and a waste of time to feel it. Anxiously and quickly Sherlock removed his coat and jacket, rolled up his sleeve, tied his belt above his elbow, and injected the drug.

_This is the last time. I promise you my dear John. It’s the last one._

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

[Five Hours Later—Evening]

John’s surgery had been a success and now it was just wait-and-see. The surgeon had managed to take the tumor out and yet there still was a chance the tumor could grow back. John was still unconscious and would be groggy for a day or two before he would be fully aware of his surroundings. Harry sat by his bedside, slight worry creasing her brow, and alone.

Sherlock weakly stumbled into the room only to stop dead in his tracks of the sight of John. His John. He hadn’t seen him since the graveyard about a month ago. He looked awful then. This time, he looked much worse—sickening even. He was elevated only slightly, enough to lay back and relax, not quite to sit up. Where the surgeon had cut into his brain, only part of his hair had been shaved however it was barely noticeable due to the light bandage. An oxygen tube ran under his nose, and his face was pale, splotchy in color, a slight green tinge was there and the skin around his eyes were darker with exhaustion clearly not just from the operation.

Harry didn’t acknowledge him; it was clear she was pissed off at him—well, pissed was an understatement. Sherlock dreaded how John would react when he woke up—if he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, I would love to know what you think so far :)
> 
> Stay tuned 
> 
> ~EM


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for (or at least I hope so). There's quite a bit of angst and bad language. 
> 
> Other than that, here you go!
> 
> ~Erin

CHAPTER 4

 

_“The length of your recovery time is determined by the extent of your injuries. And it’s not always successful. No matter how hard we work at it. Some wounds might never fully heal. You might have to adjust to a whole new way of living. Things may have to change too radically to ever go back to what they were. You might not even recognize yourself. It’s like you haven’t recovered anything at all. You’re a whole new person with a whole new life.” –Meredith Grey_

 

* * *

 

John had woken up earlier in the next morning, and regained a bit of consciousness throughout the day, however, he was groggy and unaware of those around him. Now, with Harry having gone out for an early dinner, Sherlock was alone by his friend, not having moved since yesterday. He had had barely a snack earlier and had done little moving and interacting with hospital staff as he sat there, his hand just lightly overlaying his friend’s the whole time. His knees were drawn up to his chest, his chin resting over them. He wanted to run, run far away from here and hide these overwhelming sentiments that were rising up as time ticked on. But he didn’t. He couldn’t do that to John, not again.

John’s hand twitched just slightly underneath Sherlock’s palm. This tiny movement of life eliminated the overwhelming tide of sentiments (for now); it was now the moment of truth.

“John.” Sherlock whispered, already getting ahead of himself.

John’s hand twitched again. His eyes were moving beneath his lids, indicating awareness. He let out a soft breath, which suddenly had the blogger coughing hoarsely, drawing his hand away from Sherlock’s grasp just slightly, but enough to catch the detective’s mind off guard and cause it to go on a whirlwind. _Should I take it back? Would John need water before he spoke? What should I do?_

The man stirred, taking control of his breathing and noting instantly that his throat was painfully dry. His head ached and he could feel tubes entering his body in various places. He could tell he was facing towards someone—probably Harry, who had been kindly holding his hand before he shifted away. He slowly opened his eyes and found himself with a blurred view of the consulting detective—the one who had jumped of off St. Bart’s less than a year ago—looking (was it worry?) back at him.

John starred at him without a surprised reaction. He blinked a few times clearing his vision and remained staring at Sherlock. Sherlock slowing moved his hand in attempt to hold John’s, when finally, his friend inhaled a sharp breath, withdrawing his hand and bringing it up to his mouth, his eyes already glistening with tears.

“No.” John choked out and followed it with a whimper, his gaze still directed at the consulting detective.

“John.” Sherlock said again, a loss for any other words. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and reached forward for John’s hand to uncover his mouth, and brought it into his own hand and squeezed tightly. “I’m here.”

John looked at him with longing, tears rolling down his cheeks. He was sadly disappointed. _I thought the surgery would work. Why hadn’t it worked?_

Sherlock looked over him as if reading his mind and answered for him.

“The surgeon got the tumor out, John.” Sherlock said calmly. “There was a little bit of bleeding but they fixed it. Erm, your kidneys are a bit slow but you’re should be fine. You’ll be okay." 

John’s brow furrowed into confusion. Tears continued to fall down his peaky cheeks, not showing any signs in stopping. He removed his hand from Sherlock’s and wiped as much as he could away, just as Harry walked into the room.

“John…” She said when she noticed her brother was awake and his eyes were red from crying. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Harry stepped forward and took his hand and squeezed it for reassurance. “Would you like some water?”

John cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak. He couldn’t form a word just yet so instead he nodded. Harry poured him a cup and held the straw to his mouth. John took a shaking sip before lying back down as more tears escaped his eyes.

“What did you do?” Harry whispered threatening to Sherlock. Before he could respond, John, who had leaned back up for another sip of water, spluttered it out and coughed hoarsely.

“What—.” He cleared his throat and then continued in a fragile whisper. “What do you mean?” John asked, looking up to his sister.

Harry pointedly looked at Sherlock on the other side of the bed and opened her mouth to speak. Before she could form a word, John followed her gaze to the consulting detective and let out a shaky gasp, his eyes widening with shock. He looked back to Harry then back to Sherlock, then back to Harry.

“You can see him too?”

Harry nodded once before looking across the bed to Sherlock. He was looking at John, his face expressionless apart from the faint glisten in his eyes. It was a glisten of something Harry could not put an emotion to. It was the universe; a vast collection of sentiments trapped in the cold black depths of his usual façade. Harry wondered why cover up such beauty? In a matter of a glance, she seemed had an understanding of how the consulting detective felt towards her brother, despite his selfish characteristics and actions from what she read on John’s blog. And she only saw it in his eyes. John knew everything else—every other expression that had fallen onto the detective’s face before he covered it up with an indifferent mask.

John looked at Sherlock, speechless, his mouth slightly opened as if it froze whilst forming a word. His eyes were swimming with confusion, then realization, moving back and forth observing the man beside him.

“You’re alive.” John whispered. It wasn’t a question, merely a loud thought that escaped his mind and formed into words from his lips.

“Yes.”

John shakily raised his hand, his other still held by Harry, and gently caressed Sherlock’s cheek, feeling his dry cool skin against his fingertips, causing a light shudder from the detective.

“Oh my God.” John whispered, his hand lingering over Sherlock’s cheekbone. Suddenly, his peaky complexion tinged to a sight pink tone over his cheeks; John took away his hand and then slapped it across the detective’s face as hard as he could.

“You fucking bastard.” John rasped to the other man, his hand weakly tugging on his collar in an attempt to bring him closer. He tugged harder and Sherlock leaned towards him gently. John kept tugging until Sherlock was able to rest his head in the crook of John’s neck.  He brought his other hand and wrapped it around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him impossibly closer. John leaned up just slightly into the awkward embrace as Sherlock raised his arms and rested them gently onto John’s sides.

“Dammit Sherlock where the fuck have you been?” John whispered in Sherlock’s ear, sending a warm shiver down the detective’s spine. Sherlock let out a shudder and tightened his grip. He didn’t respond to the question; he would have time to explain later. Right now Sherlock wanted to enjoy the moment. He was finally with John. He was home.

Sherlock looked towards Harry and raised a questioning eyebrow, silently insisting that they have some privacy. She scoffed softly as she squeezed John’s good shoulder and then left, a small grin forming on her lips. A few minutes passed when they were still locked into an embrace, when Sherlock noticed John had fallen asleep in his arms. He gently unwrapped himself from the smaller man and laid him back down to the pillow. Sherlock leaned back to sit back down but then quickly without really thinking about what he was doing, leaned forward again and pressed a lingering kiss to John’s forehead. His lips lingered slightly as a tear escaped the detective’s eyes and slide down his check onto John’s forehead. He removed his lips and rested his forehead against his friend’s before leaning back and sitting down, taking John’s hand into his own in the process.

Just then, the other Holmes’ walked into the room, umbrella tapping on the tile floor. Sherlock didn’t take his gaze away from John. He recognized the stride and didn’t see the need to face his brother.

“What do you need now Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, obviously annoyed by his brother’s presence.

“Just checking in.”

Sherlock scoffed. “You could have just viewed any CCTV cameras to check in on us, or perhaps, send a disguised nurse to get a closer look.” 

Mycroft merely rolled his eyes. “What are you planning on doing now Sherlock? Will you finish Moran with John by your side? He just had brain surgery, he can’t be running around—“?

“I know that!” Sherlock snapped.

“Then what? Have me take care of your unfinished business?”

“Moran is still a threat. He wants revenge for Moriarty’s death when my own didn’t take place. He was the closest to him. He probably already has noticed the other connections have been compromised and can easily make new ones. Surely your people can deal with that. I…” Sherlock paused and then whispered “John needs me now”.

“But what about you? What will you do when your withdrawal symptoms become too severe to ignore. And when John notices? He _will_ notice Sherlock, he’s a doctor for Christ sake—.”

“I have it under control!” Sherlock snapped.

“I could have you settled in a private room to be detoxed—.”

“No.” Sherlock interrupted.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft replied slowly. “You are an addict and this new relapse will take more energy and time to overcome.”

“I don’t care right now. John needs me, so just do us both a tremendous favor and leave, _now_.”

Mycroft pursed his lips and then turned on his heel. “As you wish…" 

Once he knew his brother was out of earshot and well away from John’s room, Sherlock sprang out of his chair and rushed into the private washroom. He vomited into the sink, painfully as not much came out since he’d barely eaten anything that day. 

Sherlock straightened up and walked back to his seat, John’s gaze following his stride. The doctor gave the detective a weak smile, his eyes glistening just slightly.

“I thought…it was a dream.” John whispered so quietly, Sherlock barely caught any of the words.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Sherlock replied as he took John’s hand into his own and gently squeezed it. John gave him another weak smile as his eyes fluttered closed. Soon enough, he was asleep again.

Sherlock stayed by his side the whole night, never letting go of his hand.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

John, sitting upright, stared at the consulting detective seated on the edge of the hospital bed in front of him. Sherlock’s eyebrows were raised just slightly in questioning, after he had finished explaining every detail and answered every question John had asked about his fake death and in destroying the rest of Moriarty’s web.  John’s eyes were wide and unblinking as he processed what he had just heard. When he had asked a question, he would do so in an even—almost impassive— tone, quite unlike the John Watson Sherlock knew. More minutes passed before the older man finally broke the silence.

“So…” John began, his voice finally faltering with emotion before he quickly stabilized it and continued, unfaltering. “Is it over then? Are Moriarty and every one of his employees, it’s all finished?”

Sherlock looked at him, his face wiped off of any hint as to what the answer is, but John instantly knew what that expression was: Sherlock was thinking of what to tell him.

 “Don’t lie to me.” John said sternly before Sherlock could open his mouth. 

Sherlock gave him a curt nod and then for the first time since they’d reunited, he purposely looked away.

"There is just one left. Sebastian Moran.” Sherlock explained quickly, his gaze in full focus on the dull tile floor. “He was the closest to Moriarty and I was in the middle of tracking him when—.” His explanation was cut short and he hesitantly looked up to John, who looked at him with a questioning look.

“When…” John whispered.

Sherlock sighed and then looked away. Before he could continue however, John reached across the bed and gently grabbed Sherlock’s cheek and turned his head towards him.

“Look at me, Sherlock.” John whispered as he lowered his hand and took Sherlock’s own into his palm. “When were you tracking him?”

Sherlock looked at John in the eye, although he kept his face emotionless.

“Mycroft informed me about your tumor and then a few weeks later, while I was…stuck,” Sherlock said the word like venom, obviously bothered that he, the great Sherlock Holmes, was baffled. “Mycroft told me about your surgery and the fact that you signed a DNR and I just couldn’t…” Sherlock’s face faltered a fraction and revealed something: he was ashamed of something John couldn’t quite comprehend.

“You were…” John encouraged.

Sherlock blinked and his face straightened back to his normal façade. “I couldn’t stand the possibility that you would die and I wasn’t there. I couldn’t do anything to prevent it. I thought that if you died, John,” Sherlock locked is gaze with John’s. “If you died, then all of this would have been for nothing.”

John leaned back slightly but kept his hand holding Sherlock’s. “Right…well…Sherlock…” John paused and licked his lips, holding his gaze. “I’m fine now. I’m alive you’re alive. It’s all going to be fine.” The army doctor gave the detective a slight grin, and in return Sherlock grinned back and nodded. John leaned back forward and pulled the detective into a hug. Sherlock was caught off guard and had trouble placing his hands before he settled them awkwardly on John’s lower back and tightened the embrace just slightly. John tucked his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and inhaled deeply.

“I’ve missed you.” John murmured.

Sherlock breathed deeply and tightened the embrace even further. “I’ve missed you too John.” His baritone voice rumbled against John’s ear, who smiled. He had missed that voice.

Suddenly, the atmosphere changed into chaos and desperation.

John’s arms fell limp in the embrace; his whole body felt light in Sherlock’s hold. “John…?” Sherlock gently leaned out of the embrace just as the heart monitor beeped into sudden alarms. “John! John wake up!”

John’s eyes were closed as he lay lifelessly in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock laid him gently down as he yelled for help.

“I need help! John? John!” Sherlock aimlessly yelled John’s name as he shook him gently in an attempt to wake him up. A nurse and a doctor rushed in and assessed the alarms and looked over John’s medical chart.

“We’re sorry sir, we can’t do anything. He signed a DNR.” The nurse informed the helpless detective gently. The heart monitor suddenly went into one monotonous beep and the heart rate flat lined. Sherlock hopped off the bed and looked down upon his friend. He began applying compressions to John’s chest and after a set number of heartbeats, Sherlock breathed into John’s mouth to give him the breath of life.

“Come one John don’t do this…” Sherlock huffed out as he continued with compressions. The doctor stood on the other side of the bed and tried to gently take hold of Sherlock’s arms.

“I’m very sorry sir but we are obligated by law not to take any extreme measures—.”

“He didn’t want this!” Sherlock snapped back at him, his eyes blazing with unshed tears. He looked down upon John and after giving him another breath, continued compressions. “He wants to live.”

Just then, Mycroft stepped into the room, his umbrella tapping the floor as he walked towards Sherlock.

“Sherlock.” The man in question ignored him.

“ _Sherlock_.” Mycroft repeated sternly.

“No!” Sherlock replied without taking his gaze away from John. “He wants to live. He wants to—.”

Sherlock was cut off by the sudden beeping of the heart monitor.

“It’s v-fib. Someone get the defibrillators!” Sherlock yelled as he paused with his compressions. He looked around him; nobody moved.

“SOMEONE DO SOMETHING!” He yelled.

“He signed a—.”

“I don’t care what he signed! Mycroft,” Sherlock turned to his brother. “ _Do something_.” He insisted. It didn’t sound like a plea, more like a command, but his eyes begged to differ: they were glistening with an emotion Mycroft had never seen in his younger brother before.

With a curt nod, Mycroft turned to the doctor. “Dr. Shepherd…”

Whatever was shared between them was whispered and whether or not it was a threat by the British Government, Sherlock didn’t know. He didn’t care. After Mycroft leaned away, the doctor’s face fell with a realization and faced an ultimatum. He looked up to Sherlock and then calmly spoke to the nurse.

“Get the crash cart now and charge the paddles.”

“But doctor—.”

“Do it now!”

“Yes sir.”

“It’s most likely his kidneys…!”

In a hustle of movements, a few more nurses rushed in with the cart as Dr. Shepherd ushered Sherlock to stand back.

“Place a bag over his mouth and breath for him, we don’t have time to place a tube.” He ordered. “Are the paddles charged?”

“Charged sir.”

“Alright, clear!”

John’s body was bolted with the charge and then fell limp, the heart monitor continued in a flat line.

“Restarting compressions.” The doctor continued them as a nurse took over John’s breathing. Sherlock stayed in the corner, fidgeting, his eyes glazed over and focused on John’s limp body.

The heart monitors alarmed and John was in v-fib again.

“Damn. Charge the paddles!”

 “Clear!”

 John’s body jolted again and the heart monitor read a flat line, again.

“Dammit. Restarting compressions.”

 John remained unresponsive whilst Sherlock stayed in the corner; his face expressionless but his eyes swimming still with unshed tears.

“Hold compressions. Push one of epi.” Doctor Shepherd took John’s pulse and then checked his heart with his stethoscope.

A few seconds passed in silence. Ten exactly. Finally, a heartbeat appeared on the monitor. Then another one followed. Then another. John’s heart rate rose after a few moments to a steady rhythm, his chest moving in sync with slow short breaths being exhaled out of his mouth. A nurse placed an oxygen mask over his mouth and settled him in the bed. The medical faculty eased their way out of the room with murmurs to each other regarding hourly check ups and other various medical needs.

 

Sherlock had his arms crossed protectively over his chest while he tentatively paced the room in front of John’s bed, unsure of what to do. He froze in his pace and took one last look at his friend before rushing out of the room past Mycroft, rushing down the hall, and then breaking into a run out the doors.

Once outside, the consulting detective retched into the grass, his arm gripping his abdomen. (He had cramps but chose to ignore them). He gulped a large amount of air and sat harshly on a nearby bench and bent forward, placing his head in his hands, running his fingers tensely through his hair.

Fifteen minutes passed when Mycroft stood in front of him. Sherlock looked up, the unshed tears having disappeared from his eyes and fallen to the ground. He wiped away the streaks as he straightened up in the bench; his face erasing away whatever emotion was readable and returned to his usual façade.

Mycroft remained silent but raised his hand and offered Sherlock a cigarette. The consulting detective didn’t hesitate and took it from his brother who then lit if for him.

“Do we really need to have this conversation _now_ Mycroft.” Sherlock snapped after a few moments with nothing by silence and smoke.

“Perhaps later would be more convenient for you.” The older man implied.

“Perhaps never.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched at the corners. “Must I remind you, Sherlock… that caring is not an advantage.”

“It’s come to my attention that maybe it is neither a _disadvantage_ as well, _Mycroft_.” Sherlock spat. 

Mycroft smirked and then replied in a slow but empty threat. “Are you admitting that you the high-functioning sociopathic Sherlock Holmes has found a way to feel?”

Sherlock scoffed. He abruptly stood up and began walking back to the hospital when Mycroft interrupted his stride by placing his umbrella in front of Sherlock’s path.

“If I quote you correctly, ‘sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side’. You don’t like to lose.”

Sherlock straightened his pose and glared at his brother. “I don’t plan on losing.” He said deeply, his baritone voice rumbling against the crisp air with a surprise confidence and stability. With that Sherlock turned around and headed back to John.

  

~~~~~~~~~~~~

John’s eyes fluttered opened just as Sherlock walked in. Keeping his eyes as open as he could, he gave the detective a weak smile.

“Now we’re even.”

“How do you mean?” Sherlock asked quietly as he made his way back to his seat by the bedside.

“Us dying, or almost dying. You look like I gave you a fright. You okay?”

Sherlock was taken aback by John’s caring question and gave him a simple nod.

“Like you said, now we’re even.” Sherlock gave him a hesitant grin, but was greeted by a smile. His brows furrowed in confusion. “Why are you smiling?”

John’s eyes fluttered close; he was about to fall asleep again. “No reason, I’m just…” John paused and opened his eyes. They were glistening with tears.

Sherlock froze and stuttered. “Oh John don’t cry—.”

John reached forward and took the detective’s hand. “No Sherlock I’m not. Don’t worry. I’m not…” John grinned.

Sherlock’s grin widened into a smile, and John giggled for the first time in more than a year. “Why don’t you sleep while I do too, mhm? I doubt you’ve slept in weeks.”

“I’m quite alright—.”

John glared at him the best he could, the grin still on his face. Sherlock sighed and nodded, smirking. “I’ll sleep once you’ve fallen first.” John gave him a slight nod, and fell asleep soon after, the grin still on his face.

Sherlock stayed by John’s bed, their hands intertwined whilst the army doctor slept. Doctor Shepherd had checked in and informed Sherlock that if John’s vitals improve, he could be discharged by next week. That was when Sherlock realized he didn’t know exactly where could he go. John needed someone to look after him for weeks to come, and wherever he was currently staying at simply won’t do. It wouldn’t feel like home. So despite their bitter conversation an hour ago, Sherlock texted Mycroft and agreed to have his people work in locating Moran as well as clearing Sherlock’s name and easing their way back to Baker Street. Mycroft had kept the flat and paid the rent as soon as he found out Sherlock was alive; Mrs. Hudson didn’t know yet, but Sherlock thought to break it to her once he needed clean clothes for John. Mycroft’s men would transfer John’s belongings to Baker Street, to make the move easier, and would only be a matter of days before the pair can head back home, together. But now, John slept, after almost—literally (as Sherlock saw it)— dying in the detective’s arms.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

One week later, John sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in his oatmeal jumper and jeans, but in desperate need of a proper shower. He had called Harry and reassured her there was no need for her help but he appreciated it greatly and would be keeping in touch with her. Sherlock had stopped at Baker Street and retrieved clean clothes for him after almost giving Mrs. Hudson a heart attack. After a sobbing reunion, he fetched the clothes and made it back to the hospital. John was utterly surprised of how caring Sherlock was. It made him wonder, but thought best to breech the subject later.

Sherlock walked into the room, wheelchair in tow, his coat twirling with his stride.

“Ready?”

John nodded and placed himself in the chair. He tried insisting it was unnecessary but even he knew, as a doctor, it was protocol.

The detective wheeled his friend out the hospital doors, finally free of its barriers. 

…

Walking up the seventeen steps was tough, but John finally made it up to their flat. He was exhausted. Brain surgery could do that to a person. He slumped inside and froze. It was in the same condition he left it: skull on the mantel, armchairs by the fireplace, kitchen full of experiments—well it was clean now, he would have to thank Mrs. Hudson for that. John made his way to his chair and settled down, suppressing a yawn. He needed sleep. But he also needed to have a serious talk with Sherlock. He was still upset about the whole thing. Thrilled to have him back but still furious. Back at the hospital, they hadn’t had much time in discussing the real seriousness of the whole situation due to John’s limited consciousness before sleep and exhaustion took over.  It was happening again yet John couldn’t suppress his anticipation for his life going back to how it used to be, or at least, he hoped it would without any severe change.

Just then Sherlock appeared in the doorway (after being nagged by Mrs. Hudson to take better care of John this time). John overhead a bit of their conversation and thought it was flattering that Sherlock didn’t complain at all—in fact it sounded as if he was looking forward to it. Not that John needed help but perhaps that he was looking forward to being closer to John. John didn’t know the real reason for Sherlock’s sudden act of care, but found it flattering nonetheless. Still, it didn’t ease down his frustration. A bit. But not much.

“You should go get some rest. Mrs. Hudson will make us supper tonight though she insisted it was just a one time thing.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched in amusement as he sat in his armchair in front of John.

“That’s nice of her. Maybe I will catch some sleep. How about you?” John couldn’t help but ask.

“Me?”

“Yes you.”

“Oh I don’t—.”

“Sherlock…”

The detective rolled his eyes. “I’m not tired John. Don’t worry I’ll be fine.”

The man hesitated and then nodded. “Right then…” He stood up and proceeded down the hall but then paused and turned around to face the detective. “If I’m not up when dinner’s ready just feel free to wake me.”

Sherlock nodded.

“And Sherlock?”

“Mhm?”

John paused, locking his gaze with the other man’s. “When I come back down we’re going to talk okay?”

Sherlock kept still for a moment and then nodded slightly. John nodded back and then proceeded back to his room.

A couple hours into the nap, Sherlock slipped into John’s room as quietly as he could and pressed two fingers on John’s pulse point on his neck. After a reassuring and satisfactory answer, Sherlock left, only to come back two hours later and repeat the cycle. Half an hour later, he came back and awoke the man for dinner.

Later that night, seated in their armchairs with the fireplace glowing beside them, John thought they should get on with it.

“Sherlock I think—.”

“John?”

Ignoring the interruption, John raised his brows to allow the detective to go on. His face was awkward and withdrawn, as if something was wrong.

“Something wrong?” John asked, his voice calm and even.

“Before we discuss everything, I…I seemed to have forgotten to inform you of one minor detail…”

“About?”

Sherlock fidgeted. John noticed he was rather paler than usual, thinner around the waist, and a slight sweat gleam on his forehead like he had a fever. Before he could point any of it out, Sherlock answered.

“The graveyard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that. Stay tuned for the next chapter, don't worry things should be cleared up by the end if they weren't clear here. I'm in the middle of writing chapter 7, and there should be about 10. Chapter 5 will probably be 2 parts, it's quite long. 
> 
> Anyways, please comment! I really want to know what you guys think! 
> 
> (Note:)  
> V-Fib: Ventricular fibrillation: abnormal heart rhythm


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here chapter 5, which is split into 2 parts because it's so long. If I get any comments on this one, then I will give you part 2 sooner, or by Tuesday... that is if I get some comments :)
> 
> Warning: drug use
> 
> otherwise.... enjoy!   
> ~Erin

  _“…Knowing is better than wondering. That waking is better than sleeping. And that even the biggest failure, even the worst, most intractable mistake beats the hell out of never trying.” ~ Meredith Grey_

John stared at Sherlock. His face had paled when Sherlock had clarified what he was talking about and since then, he hadn’t spoken a word as the detective explained.

It _was_ Sherlock who he saw at the gravesite, not a hallucination. How the detective knew John would assume it to be a phantasm was beyond him.

Now that Sherlock was finished, John remained quiet. But he was indeed furious. And embarrassed.

After several more minutes in silence, Sherlock broke it.

“John?” 

John pursed his lips and blinked rapidly. He took a deep breath and then spoke.

“You just went…along with it. Pretended to be what…a-a ghost? Why?” He asked, his voice tense.

“I already—.”

“Sherlock please just—.” John looked away, tightening his lips and closing his eyes. When he looked back up and opened them, they were gleaming. He motioned with his hand for Sherlock to answer the question (again).

Sherlock fought back rolling his eyes and answered. “I thought it through and it appealed completely logical to—.”

“Why?” John interrupted.

Sherlock stared at him. “I’m trying to—.”

“Why did you do it?”

“If you let me finish I’ll—.”

“Why did you do it?!” 

“John this is ridic—.”

“Why. Did. You. Do. It?”

“ARRGH I did it for you John!” Sherlock bellowed as he jumped to his feet.

John stared at him, eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. He shut them closed and after a moment opened them to find Sherlock still standing.

“Why?” John whispered and sniffed.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Why what?”

“Why for me Sherlock? Why couldn’t you just…” John paused and looked away. He looked back up to see Sherlock looking down on him with concern. John was taken aback and narrowed his eyes. He was showing concern—actual concern. Sherlock noticed John’s realization and quickly dropped his expression to his normal blank canvas.

John continued. “Why couldn’t you have just…told me you were alive? Or better yet, not told me at all—I mean—.” John cut himself off when he saw Sherlock flinch. He continued softly. “I didn’t mean it like that Sherlock…I mean…why—.”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted and proceeded when John looked up to him, his eyes returning the verge-of-tears look. “I knew if I told you the whole truth then that you would have wanted to help me with Moran. You wouldn’t have wanted to stay in a hospital bed and wait for me. And I—.” Sherlock hesitated. “I wouldn’t have been able to…work while you were having surgery alone—.”

“I wasn’t alone, I had Harry.”

Sherlock scoffed but was granted a glare. He continued. “I wanted you to have your tumor taken out as soon as possible and I thought once you were better then I could come back to you for good. But then you signed the DNR and I thought…if _you_ really thought you needed to sign that then your chances weren’t in your favor and I—.”

Sherlock’s swallowed, a lump growing in his throat. He whispered. “I thought that if you died then all of this would have been for nothing.”

“I wouldn’t have signed the DNR if I had known you were alive.” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded. “I realize that now. I—I may have possibly been…mistaken.” Sherlock murmured.

John looked at Sherlock, a tear finally escaping. He quickly wiped it away and turned his head. Sherlock stepped forward and gently grazed his blogger’s check and nudged it to face him. He lifted John’s chin up and urged him to raise his eyes. Finally, John looked up, his eyes swimming with tears. He was hurt, and Sherlock felt terrible. They locked their eyes and fell in silence. Sherlock rubbed his thumb affectionately against John’s cheek and in return, the army doctor leaned more into the hold.

Swiftly John stood up and nudged himself into Sherlock’s arms. The detective settled his arms around John’s waist and back. They stayed intertwined for several seconds.

Slowly, John shifted back and looked into Sherlock’s grey-green eyes. He gave the detective a weak smile, who grinned back, and then headed to his bedroom.

John paused in the hallway and without turning around he spoke. “So what are your plans now?”

Sherlock looked towards him. “Regarding what?”

“Moran.”

“Oh. Mycroft.”

John nodded and then continued. “I’m glad you’re back. Furious, but glad. Good night Sherlock.” Without another word John walked up the stairs to his bedroom and closed the door. He leaned back against it and took in a shuddering breath. As if routine kicked in, he got himself ready for bed and slipped into the sheets. He was grateful he was exhausted and didn’t have to have any middle-of-the-night thoughts. He fell asleep instantly.

Sherlock kept frozen in his stance, processing his thoughts. Suddenly he was overcome by a wave of nausea and stumbled into the bathroom. He violently retched into the sink. After taking several deep but shuddering breathes, he lowered himself to the floor and leaned against the wall. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep the symptoms a secret for much longer, not without treatment and to get treatment John would need to know. Out of habit and almost as if Sherlock was ignoring the fact the he was doing this, he slid his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a syringe of cocaine. Ignoring the promise he had made to himself and to John in his mind, he undid his belt and tied it to his forearm before puncturing himself with the needle and injecting the solution.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[2 weeks later]

Sherlock vomited into the kitchen sink, his whole body trembling and sweating. Barely anything came out but his body wouldn’t stop. His throat was sore and his head ached. The slightest noise would pound against his ears and frustrate him even further. He stumbled away from the kitchen and by the time he made it to the window, he was crawling. His muscles ached and his cramps in his abdomen were non-stop. He slouched against the window and drew his dressing gown tighter around himself and thudded his forehead against the chilled window, in attempt to cool down.

_Stop shaking. Just stop shaking before John gets back._

As a way of the universe to pull the rug under his volatile state, the front door opened and he could hear the familiar steps of John entering the flat and into the sitting room. He set down a bag of groceries and placed the milk in the fridge. (He had had a check up at the hospital and then stopped by the local shop).

“Well at least you’re in a different spot then when I left.” He muttered.

Sherlock smirked. Or at least the best he could. He was in too much pain to try.

John looked towards the detective and took in his careless position. His brow furrowed in concern. “You okay?” He asked as he walked towards Sherlock.

“M’fine.” Sherlock mumbled as he stood up weakly and stumbled away. His legs quivered beneath him and he leaned his side on the window, closing his eyes as he tried to gain focus and strength.

John stood behind him and gently grasped his shoulder and tried to turn him around. “You look sick. Let me check your temperature, you may have a fever.”

“M’fine John.” Sherlock mumbled again and gently shook John off. He began walking away to the sofa, but then bumped into the table that was directly in front of him. John’s eyes narrowed with uncertainty; Sherlock knew the flat by memory, he would be able to find his way around it even without his sight.

“Sherlock…just come here,” John gently grasped hold of Sherlock by the back of his shoulders and pulled him back to direct him to his chair. Sherlock tried to shove him off but was growing frustrated with his weak attempts and lost his temper.

“Just—just BACK OFF JOHN!” Sherlock yelled and twisted from John’s hold and in fury, slammed his hand against the window. It cracked profusely against the impact and blood tricked down Sherlock’s palm. John had jumped by the sudden outburst and was eyeing Sherlock with much more concern than ever. Sherlock looked at him, eyes wide, and then stuttered incomprehensible words as he backed away. He lost balance and stumbled against a chair. John hurried forward and wrapped an arm around the taller man’s waist to hold him up.

“I’m sorry John I don’t know why—.” Sherlock murmured.

“It’s alright, lets get you to the couch and see what’s wrong.”

John shifted the detective and half carried, half dragged him across the room and placed him on the sofa. He gently placed his head over a cushion and then quickly went upstairs for his medical kit. Sherlock remained silent, his eyes still wide with what he had just done.

On his way back, John grabbed a couple of cloths and a bowl and filled it with warm water.

He took a cloth and dipped it into the bowl, squeezed out excess water and then gently cleaned the cut on Sherlock’s palm. It wasn’t deep and wouldn’t need any stitches, which John found a relief. Sherlock moaned softly but didn’t speak.

After he covered it with a thin layer of gauze and tapped it together, John took Sherlock’s vitals and temperature. He had a slight fever, and his eyes were dilated. He wetted another cloth and placed it over Sherlock’s forehead.

“What’s that for?” Sherlock mumbled.

“Just to cool you down. It’s not too high a fever, but it won’t hurt to cool you anyway.”

With a dreaded hunch, John rolled Sherlock’s sleeve up his arm and found quite a few telltale markings, clearing from a needle.

John sighed and ran a hand through the detective’s hair. _Oh Sherlock what have you done?_

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and avoided John’s gaze.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” John asked, stroking Sherlock’s hair back and reapplying the damp cloth to his forehead.

“No…” Sherlock mumbled, still looking at the back of the sofa.

“No? Jesus, Sherlock. Were you just planning on keeping it a secret until you died while I was in another room!”

Sherlock scoffed weakly. “I’m not dying—.”

“You could Sherlock, if you don’t get treated. I—I think I should call Mycroft—.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened with a kind of alarm John had never seen in the detective’s grey eyes and spoke desperately.

“No John! Don’t! You’re-a-doctor-you-can-care-for-me-just-as-easily-I’ll-be-fine-John-please-don’t-call-him-I-don’t-like-that-place-John-please-John-don’t-leave-me.” Sherlock rambled on as he scrambled into John’s arms and held him tightly. John nudged him away and pushed him back to the sofa.

“Shhh, it’s alright. I won’t okay?”

“John—please, _you_ can take care of me… right?” Sherlock asked, biting his lip looking at the doctor hesitantly.

“Of course I will.”

“But you just had surgery—.”

“That was almost a month ago, and I just have to take it easy for a couple more weeks. I had a check up today, and the doctor said I’m recovery quite remarkably. I’ll be fine. You on the other hand, are the patient now.”

Sherlock scoffed lightly. “You won’t leave?” He asked, looking away, uncertainty still in his eyes.

“Why would I do that?”

Sherlock shrugged. John reached up and gently moved Sherlock’s head to face him. “You trust me?” He asked.

Sherlock nodded immediately. “Then you don’t have to worry. I’m here for you.”

The detective grinned softly. “I—I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” He whispered.

John gulped, but nodded in appreciation for the apology. “I know.”

 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[The Next Day, Afternoon]

John trudged up the stairs with his supplies.  Sherlock had awoken in the middle of the night with cramps and then slept through the morning. Mrs. Hudson had kept an eye on him whilst he was out. Now, with bags in hand, John headed to the kitchen and set them down. He wasn’t completely sure what to get. He was tempted to ask Mycroft what kind of medication Sherlock would be allowed to take, but instead, trusted his better judgment. With a variety of painkillers low on the addictive side and a stable supply of narcan, John felt more confident for this at-home detox treatment.

With everything close by, John walked into the sitting room to find Sherlock asleep, curled into a ball, on the sofa, twitching and moaning softly. John walked closer and knelt down; it seemed like Sherlock was having a nightmare.

“Sherlock.” John whispered, shaking the detective gently by the shoulder. “Wake up. It’s just a dream.”

Sherlock whimpered.

“Sherlock wake up.” John said gently.

Sherlock stilled and his eyes fluttered opened. John gave him a welcoming grin. “You okay?”

Sherlock’s brows creased and he remained silent, his eyes focusing on John’s face as if he was processing something. Suddenly, his eyes widened and before John could ask what was wrong, Sherlock sat straight up and vomited over John’s knees.

With a groan Sherlock lay back down onto the sofa, turned away from John, and curled into a tight ball, drawing his knees up to his chest and moaning into the cushion.

John muttered a curse and went to the bathroom to wash off. After changing his jeans, he found Sherlock in the same position, awake and staring at the back of the sofa. He walked towards him and stood facing his back, and preparing for another episode, cautiously nudged Sherlock for his attention.

“Mhm?” Sherlock mumbled.

“You alright? Do you want to get cleaned up?”

“Mmph.”

“Pardon?”

 “No…” Sherlock grumbled.

“Sherlock I think it’s best you have a bath. Wash your body at least, you’ll feel better.”

“How can I possibly feel any better?”

“Well, you’ll be clean and the movement will do you good. You don’t want to—.”

“It’s more what you want, John. I’m perfectly fine like this but if you insist—.”

“I do.”

Sherlock looked behind his shoulder and found John looking at him keenly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re…keen…do you—do you want to wash me—.”

“What? No—no Sherlock, I—I…” John awkwardly paused and looked away, his cheeks blushing lightly. “I just thought you’d feel better—if you…wash your—I mean…shit I—.”

“Will you help me?”

John turned his head and faced Sherlock a little to quickly. “What?”

“I ache all over and it’d be easier for me if you’d help me up and into the tub. You don’t have to undress me or anything. I can do that.”

John blushed deeper and looked away nodding. “Alright sure. Let me help you up…”

In silence, John bent forward and helped the detective to his feet. Sherlock stumbled and leaned on John for support, unaware—or at least John hoped he was unaware—of the pink blush deepening on John’s cheeks. They hobbled their way to the bathroom and once there, John set Sherlock down on the toilet lid before turning on the faucet.

John turned and faced Sherlock. The detective was staring straight ahead with intense focus when suddenly he retched again, this time all over the floor. John rushed forward with a towel and cleaned Sherlock’s face. He then cleaned up the floor whilst the detective leaned against the wall, exhausted and on the verge of sleep again.

“No, Sherlock don’t fall asleep.” John hushed to the detective. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then eat something and then you can sleep, alright?”

“M’okay.”

John hesitated before composing himself into doctor mode and then began undressing Sherlock. He placed his spoiled clothes in a pile and then hurriedly rushed into Sherlock’s room for some clean ones. Once back, John took Sherlock’s pants off and then gently guided him into the tub. Sherlock slouched against the back and was in a daze as John washed him. He lost track of time as he washed the man’s back, pushing him forward slightly so he could reach. Sherlock’s marble skin appeared even more beautiful up close. Layered with imperfections, John resisted the urge to caress every inch of the magnificent layer that embodied Sherlock Holmes.

“You’re humming.” The man being admired said out of the blue.

John stared taken aback. He didn’t know the detective was listening, or even out of a daze. “Sorry.” He mumbled.

“No it’s…fine.”

John blushed. “Do you want to come out? I’m all done…”

“Did you just wash me twice because you didn’t want to wake me?” Sherlock asked in an accusing but slightly amused tone.

“You know the answer to that.” John teased then he realized what he had just said and cleared his throat awkwardly.

Sherlock grinned and nodded. John laughed softly but then composed himself.

“Alright,” John said. “Let’s get you dressed and then fed, mhm?”

Sherlock sat up straighter and stood up with John’s arm around his waist. The doctor wrapped around a towel and then helped him over the ledge.

“Do you want to—.” John began, eyeing the clean clothes on the counter. He looked back to Sherlock. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock stared at him, a grin slowly wiping away from his face and his brows creased. “Jawn…” His eyes rolled back into his head as he fell onto John. The doctor stumbled backwards and slipped, falling onto his back. With a thud, the detective laid there, unconscious, draped over his friend.

John took a moment to catch his breath and then gently pushed Sherlock off of him. Sherlock remained out cold, and with a bit of effort, John dressed the detective and then half carried, half dragged him to his bedroom. Once he settled him in, John went into the kitchen and prepared a small meal. Sherlock needed to eat, he was lacking energy and if he didn’t gain any soon, he could—John stopped himself. He wouldn’t let Sherlock get that far.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One week later, Sherlock was in the kitchen, dressing robe falling loosely over one shoulder as he stared at the forgotten syringe lying on the counter, mocking the detective. That was absurd—items don’t mock people.

_Just one more,_ Sherlock thought. He had found it hidden in the back of the cabinet of random things (he was looking for wherever John kept the tea mugs; he didn’t know). His hand trembled with anxiety and temptation. He picked up the syringe only to hold it and stare at it longer. _John would be out for a bit longer right? Surely by the time he gets back he may not even notice—_

Sherlock knew immediately it was wrong to doubt John, and lashed out in his brain for even thinking that kind of thought. He grew frustrated with his conflicting thoughts and didn’t notice John’s familiar stride up the stairs and the sudden stop as he walked into the kitchen.

“Sherlock? What’s that in your hand?” John stood hesitantly in the doorway; facing Sherlock’s back. Sherlock didn’t respond, however in a string of moments, he lost control.

The consulting detective scurried away into the sitting room, rushing past John. But the doctor had prepared himself—Sherlock should have notice the anticipation in his posture. John lunged forward and reached for the syringe but Sherlock stretched his arm above him, out of reach of the shorter man. John didn’t stop stepping forward while reaching as Sherlock walked backwards, who stumbled. The pair lost their footing and toppled into a heap on the floor.

“Give it to me!”

“No! John please—just—let me—my mind—it’s—John!”

“Dammit Sherlock! No!”

“John—!”

“Sherlock—finally!” John gasped as the syringe was flung away from Sherlock’s grasp and he picked it up before the detective could get back onto his feet. John stumbled away and stepped back. Sherlock stood up, a bit too fast, and wobbled on his feet. Out of mere frustration and agitation (mostly for himself), the detective flung the back of his hand hard against John’s cheek.

Sherlock froze in shock, his eyes widening at his sudden outburst. John kept his face in place from the blow, and slowly after a few deep breathes, he turned to look at the detective. His eyes were fuming—roaring with an ocean of emotions—as he held a hard stare.

Sherlock’s shoulders fell with shame as he hesitantly looked up to meet the doctor’s eyes. He slowly reached forward and spoke.  “John I—.”

“Don’t.” John cut him off firmly, who subconsciously stepped back.

Sherlock stepped back too, a lump growing annoyingly thick in his throat as he blinked rapidly. John furiously stalked away to the bathroom and flushed whatever poison resided in the syringe tube and disposed of it. He came back to the sitting room to find Sherlock unmoved, except for his legs were shaking and he was biting his lip.

Without another word, John walked out of the room, trudged down the stairs with a hurry to his pace.

Whether Sherlock noticed the sudden stop in John’s pace or not, he didn’t pay attention as his shaking knees took over and he collapsed to the floor. He wrapped his arms around his legs, pulling himself into a ball as he began sniveling to an empty flat.

John took a breath halfway down the stairs and slowly headed back up. He reached the sitting room, door still opened, to find Sherlock crying in a fetal position. Removing his jacket calmly, the doctor walked forward and knelt to the ground. Without a word, he pulled Sherlock into his lap and held him whilst tears fell down his prominent cheekbones. Sherlock hugged him possessively as John whispered comforting sounds as he slowly rubbed the detective’s back.

“I’m sorry John.” Sherlock rasped through his rugged voice. “Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t Sherlock. But you have to promise me you’ll try. You have to meet me half way—you need to—to make an effort all right? John whispered firmly. “You need to survive this, for me, because I—” John’s voice broke. “I—.”

Sherlock nodded and looked up, expectantly. “You?”

“…care—.” John cleared his throat. “I care about you.” He awkwardly finished.

Sherlock kept his gaze and opened his mouth to say something when John interrupted. “I’m going to have Lestrade do a drugs bust tomorrow. I’ll feel better once it’s done.”

Sherlock didn’t respond but shifted in their embrace and dipped his head further into John’s arms. John took that as a response.

Whether or not Sherlock felt disappointed with his almost-yet-failed confession, John didn’t know. Whether or not the doctor placed a light kiss to the top of Sherlock’s hair, neither of them seemed to mind. It was a vulnerable moment, and John hoped it’d be the last.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment!!
> 
> Part 2 will come soon. I'm writing Chapter 7 now. for updates see my tumblr maeerin.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 5 Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for.. I hope. Please, I insist, comment! I really want to know what you think so far.
> 
> warning: angst a bit... and mild graphic violence

_(PART 1)_ _“…Knowing is better than wondering. That waking is better than sleeping. And that even the biggest failure, even the worst, most intractable mistake beats the hell out of never trying.” ~ Meredith Grey_

_So…_

_“Did you say it? I love you. I don’t ever want to live without you. You changed my life. Did you say it? Make a plan, set a goal, work towards it. But every now and then look around, drink it in. ‘Cause this is it. It might be all gone tomorrow.”       – Meredith Grey_

 

PART 2

“When is Lestrade showing up?”

“Soon.”

Sherlock nodded. He was seated in his armchair, cup of tea in hand. It had been a rough morning, but everything seemed to have calmed down for now. John sat in front of him in his own chair, reading the paper, and looking bothered by something. Sherlock didn’t want to ask until he figured it out himself. It was a decent distraction.

Soon enough, the doorbell rang and Sherlock could hear Mrs. Hudson greeting the inspector. He managed to catch a few of their lines.

“He’s doing all right, very quiet which…I guess is expected. Would you like a cuppa?”

“No thanks. I’m just here to check on him, won’t be long.”

Sherlock turned to John. “Can I have another cup of tea John?”

John nodded but didn’t move. He set aside the paper and appeared anxious, even distant, and wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock was sure of the reason now.

“He isn’t going to find anything John.”

John caught his eye and nodded again, but didn’t look convinced. Sherlock grunted.

“For God’s sake, he not! Don’t you trust me?” Sherlock said just as Lestrade walked into the sitting room. Turning to him, Sherlock snapped. “You could’ve knocked.”

John looked up to the inspector but didn’t say anything. Lestrade stood still in the room, silent. Sherlock realized he was alone and appeared to be uncomfortable.

“Well? Get on with it.”

“Whom…were you talking to?” The inspector asked hesitantly.

Sherlock huffed out a chuckle. “Have you lost your sight?” He said, nodding his head to John seated in his chair.

Lestrade looked briefly but didn’t acknowledge John.

“Sherlock…” Lestrade said slowly. “Were you talking to…to John?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course I was.”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade said again. John looked up expectantly, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. “What was the last thing you remember?”

Sherlock looked at him, suddenly in wonder. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember the past few days.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said again, calmly as he stepped closer into the room. “John’s not here…”

“I was just talking to him.” Sherlock shuffled out of his seat and pointed to John’s. It was empty. His brows furrowed. He could have sworn he was just talking to him not a minute ago. He looked back up to the inspector.

“Where’s John?”

Just then, John appeared behind Lestrade, closer to the couch.

Sherlock pointed to him. “Ah, see, there he is. I knew he was around here somewhere.” Sherlock walked past the inspector and John and gracefully settled himself on the couch.

Lestrade’s face tightened, his jaw clenching with discomfort. “Sherlock?”

“Mhm?”

“John’s not here.” He said simply and took a breath before continuing. “Don’t you remember? He flat lined back at the hospital, after surgery. You tried to revive him but the doctors stopped you because he signed a DNR form. There wasn’t anything you could have done.”

Sherlock stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably and then straightened his composure and met Sherlock’s stare. “John’s dead. He has been for almost a month now…”

_Sherlock’s chest tightened and he felt a sudden need to breathe. He gulped in large amounts of air. The room spun around him as he stood up pacing. Or was it just his mind that was spinning?_

_“What are you—no—no—John was here, he was—I was just talking to him he’s not—John,” Sherlock turned to John and now noticed he was remarkably pale and still, his eyes blank but staring directly at Sherlock—like a standing corpse or something._

_“John no! You’re not—this isn’t, no! John tell him! Say something! John talk to me! You’re right here, say something!”_

_“Sherlock calm down.” A disembodied voice yelled._

_“You’re alive John! You’re not dead—no! I-I can see you, I didn’t even-I didn’t tell you I never told you we never-I—I didn’t—John you’re here say something! I didn’t—John you’re not, you’re not, John! John!”_

“Sherlock!”

_A figure appeared from the dark hallway and stood behind John, a malicious grin forming on his face, but apart from that he was faceless. His average clothes were soaked in blood and he was holding a knife. He wrapped his arm around John’s upper torso—John remained silent—and raised his other hand to John’s neck and slide the knife clean across, blood slowly leaking out. Sherlock yelled but couldn’t move forward; he was frozen in his spot as John’s eyes fluttered closed—finally he moved—and he fell like a ragdoll to the ground._

_“John!”_

“SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and a strangled gasp escaped his throat. He stared up into the face of John, concern and utter worry blanketing his face. Like a tidal wave, Sherlock took in his surroundings: sweat clung to his face, neck, back, and chest, his fists were clenching the duvet that had been tossed and twisted away so it was down to his hips. John’s hands were gently pressed on the detective’s shoulders. Noises and sounds entered his brain and Sherlock realized John was speaking.

“…You’re all right. It was just a nightmare…”

Sherlock abruptly sat up, causing John to shift down the bed and removing his hands from the detective. The doctor remained silent as Sherlock stared out of focus on the sheets, remembering only snippets from the dream. Lestrade’s voice brought him out of his reverie and into reality.

“All right everyone, we’re done here.”

Sherlock gasped and looked up at John. “You-you—.” He choked and blinked tightly, banishing any tears that dared to fall. John spoke before he could try again.

“I’m here.” He whispered and shifted closer, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and leaning him forwards, bringing him into a tight hug. “I’m right here Sherlock.”

The detective swallowed and nuzzled into the crook of John’s neck, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and further tightening the embrace. He couldn’t stop shaking. “You were—you were dead. But then…Moran—he—he—.” Sherlock chocked and swallowed down a sob.

John slowly broke them apart, but still close enough to feel each other’s breaths. He raised his hands and cupped Sherlock’s jaw, lifting it up so their eyes met. The doctor’s eyes were glistening and slightly pink, but the glisten faded with every blink.

“I’m here Sherlock.” He said slowly. “I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock gave a slight nod, and then asked, “Why were you crying?”

John cleared his throat, but kept his gaze steady. “I—I heard you shouting. Well, er, I think everyone did. You shouted my name and something about not telling me something. I just—.” John stopped and blinked, focusing his eyes onto Sherlock’s. He gave him a warm grin—comforting and assuring. He swallowed and hesitantly opened his mouth but then closed it, furrowing his brows in thought.

Sherlock wanted to know what he was going to say, so he gave a curt nod, encouraging John to continue.

“I—um was there…something you wanted to tell me?”

Sherlock didn’t know. He wasn’t sure and doubted what it was he was feeling and wondered how it became possible to feel such…such whatever it was. Desire? Affection? Love? Or was he simply flattered by John’s extraordinary care as a friend—strictly platonic that is?

So Sherlock just said, “I don’t know.”

John shrugged. “Probably nothing. It was just a dream.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but see the slight disappointment in John’s eyes.

“But _why_ were you crying?” Sherlock asked again, grinning just slightly at John’s attempt at changing the subject.

John grinned back, the glisten in his eyes having faded away completely now, however his eyes were still pink around the edges.

“I—(clears throat)—I was just worried, you were thrashing about, crying, and appeared to be in pain——.”

“I was crying?”

“Sort of a mixture of sweat and tears more like, um, I just felt helpless for a moment. It took a bit long to wake you, and…”

“And?”

John looked away and mumbled. “I just wish I could take the pain away.”

“That’s an odd thing to wish for.” Sherlock remarked too quickly.

“Yeah, well that’s what people do.” John mumbled again, keeping his eyes downcast.

Sherlock paused. “Sentiment?”

“Sentiment.”

“Oh.”

John licked his lips—in that either nervous or keen habit of his Sherlock seemed to always notice. The detective wondered, _why is he nervous?_ Before he could speak his wonder out loud, John leaned in and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, gently and closed. The detective’s eyes widened with shock and his whole body froze. _What do I do?_

John leaned back and Sherlock could see a light shade of embarrassment—or was it affection, or both—rising on the doctor’s cheeks.

John’s eyes widened as he realized Sherlock remained motionless and speechless, and hadn’t even flinch is some way of response. It was definitely embarrassment now rising on the doctor’s cheeks and neck.

“I—I” John stammered, a loss for words.

Sherlock couldn’t seem to find his voice; he just remained frozen in his place, starring with widened eyes and a parted mouth at his friend.

John cleared his throat awkwardly and shifted back away. He fidgeted in place and stammered away from the bed, eventually making it to the door. Once reached, he hesitantly glanced back at Sherlock and found the detective unmoved apart from his furrowed eyebrows, appearing to be in concentration over what just happened. Without another word, John left the room, with only a slight hurry in his pace.

Seated in his armchair, John buried his head in his hands and took in deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. _Shit. What the fuck did I just do? Why did I do that? Why?_

Several minutes passed and turned into excruciating moments of uncertainty. _What if Sherlock doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore? What if he never speaks to me again?_

As if fate were on John’s side, Sherlock’s feet entered John’s view of the floor, pausing in front of him just at arms reach.

“John?”

The man in question hesitantly raised his head from his palms and found himself looking up to a freshly dressed Sherlock—unlike the disheveled self he had seen minutes after a restless sleep.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock said.

John furrowed his eyebrows. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Sherlock gulped and casted his eyes further downwards, focusing on the carpet. “John I—.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” John repeated. “It’s all on me. I initiated it. You just had a nightmare; you were vulnerable. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, and it won’t again. I’m sorry it’s making things uncomfortable. Just forget it ever happened.”

Sherlock nodded but kept his gaze upon the floor.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock gulped but didn’t move his gaze. John sighed and repeated himself. “Look at me Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed with defeat and raised his eyes up to lock his gaze with John’s. His eyes were glistening and before John fully realized what was going on, tears began leaking out, streaming down the detective’s cheeks and onto the floor.

“Hey,” John said calmly. Remaining seated, he raised a hand and took one of Sherlock’s and squeezed it. “It’s fine Sherlock. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock blinked most of the tears away and returned looking into John’s eyes. A movement caught his eye and they widened with horror and dread, and he looked back to John, this time expressing pity. Before John could register the man’s uncharacteristically amount of emotion, a voice spoke from behind.

“Who are you talking to John?”

John leapt out of his chair and spun around. Sherlock was on the threshold between the kitchen and sitting room, his dressing gown hanging on his disheveled body, and he was still wearing his old pajamas.

Dread rushed over John as he slowly turned around and found himself staring in an empty room. Nobody was there. His breathing pitched and his legs began to shake. Sherlock rushed forward and wrapped an arm around John’s waist to keep him upright. John’s eyes were wide and unfocused as the detective gently turned him around to face him.

“John, take a deep breath.” Sherlock said calmly, his hand gently pressing against John’s waist to keep him upright. “Look at me, John.”

John looked up and locked his gaze with the other man. He looked worried, but his eyes were dry, so he hadn’t been crying—he hadn’t been crying at all.

“Oh God no…” John whispered.

“Were you talking to a hallucination? Like before?” Sherlock persisted, keeping his voice calm and soothing.

“Y-yes—like before but—.” Confusion hit John and he blinked, his brows furrowing. “Wait…h—how did you know I had them before?”

Realization dawned over Sherlock and he tensed. “I—I saw you, in an alleyway, months ago, talking to someone that wasn’t there—.”

“Before the graveyard? You were back in London but still stayed away from me?” John asked, his voice stabilizing with every word but gaining a tone of bewilderment and frustration.

“I was following Moran who led me back here. But then he disappeared. I went to Mycroft to keep an eye on you so I could—.”

“You had Mycroft spy on me? That wasn’t just him showing concern for me, informing Harry about it all? You had him do all that? Why couldn’t you have just come back to me sooner?”

“We’ve already talked about this. We don’t need to—.”

“Apparently we do.” John twisted from Sherlock’s hold and stepped back. “You show up at _your_ gravesite, pretending to be a ghost—I-I didn’t realize you knew that I was seeing things before then. You showed up and I wanted to know why but you knew it would work because you saw me—oh my god, you knew! You were right there, watching me and didn’t come back to me sooner! When I needed you the most! Is that what you were talking about? What you hadn’t told me? What else haven’t you told me?” John threw questions at the detective, his eyes glaring.

“John—no! I’ve told you everything you needed to know. John, listen to me, I’m—.”

“No! No, I’m done listening to your excuses! That’s what you do, you’ve always done it: say things to cover the wrong you’ve done! You need to listen _to me_ now! _Yes_ I hallucinated _you_ when you were dead! I thought I was going crazy or that it was just part of the grief. But then you—or the ghost or whatever it was, told me that I was sick. And it went away for a bit but then it came back. And then after the surgery you show up, alive, and I thought it hadn’t worked. I thought for a moment that I was going to have to deal with the ghost of Sherlock Holmes and be taunted by the fact that I never told you how I felt! I never said anything to you when you were alive and then I go and confess my feelings to a fucking ghost and all you did—it did—was kiss me! I was reminded that I never—we never—got to do that when you were alive! But you actually were! You were alive while I was dealing with a figment of my imagination from a brain tumor—alone and without you! I’m exhausted Sherlock! These feelings I have for you are exhausting!”

John sighed and lowered his voice, becoming steadier with defeat and resentment. “And now it’s probably back. And I don’t think I can take it again. Not knowing if I’m really talking to you or not, or maybe…maybe you are actually dead and I’m just going crazy all over again.”

Sherlock stared at the other man, speechless for a moment before answering, his voice steady and calm as possible. “I’m sorry John. Forgive me for leaving you when I shouldn’t have. But I am alive. I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. You won’t be alone this time. You have to—.” Sherlock paused, cleared his throat, and continued, still looking at John. “You can do this again. I know you can. You’re the strongest person I know. You did it once, and now you have me—and trust me when I say,” Sherlock stepped closer to John until they were mere inches away from each other and took John’s hand into his own. “You have me. You have me.” He repeated.

“If you die John—.” His voice broke and he blinked rapidly, banishing the potential tears away, however one escaped from the outer corner and slid down. John blinked away his own tears away and wiped Sherlock’s away, caressing the area with his thumb before lowering his hand.

“You did the surgery before for yourself, so you would have a chance of living and moving on from me. Now that I’m back, I need you to do this for me. I’m getting better now and I did that for you because I knew you’d be here for me so I can get through it and I did. So can you do this for me? Please…”

“But at the graveyard you—you just went along with it. You didn’t bother to set the record straight. I know we already talked about this, but I need say this. I need to tell you that I thought you were a hallucination then, that I almost kissed you then, that before, I had already declared my…” John exhaled and changed his mind. “I was lost without you. Sherlock I can’t—I barely did it for myself then. I did it for you because you technically told me to. If you want me to do it for you again, or for us, I will. But I’m—.” John drew in a shaky breath as Sherlock squeezed his hand in reassurance. “I’m scared Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised a hand, cupped John’s cheek, and stroked a soothing touch with his thumb. “I know.” The detective leaned forward and pressed his forward against John’s. “I know John. It’s all right to be scared. I…I am too.”

John leaned away far enough to lock his gaze with Sherlock’s. “Of what?”

“Of losing you. For those six months, it was utterly terrifying, going on day by day and not seeing you. Being alone—without you by my side, it was terrible. I’ve said it before John and I still mean it when I say ‘I’d be lost without my blogger.”

John grinned weakly. He raised his hand and overlapped Sherlock’s that was cupping his own cheek. Sherlock leaned in and closed the small space between their lips with a shy kiss. John leaned into it, moving just a bit back and forth for a slight rhythm. The kiss turned passionate and the pair kissed each other for a few more seconds before John backed away slightly.

Panic ran down Sherlock’s spine. “What’s wrong?”

John kept his gaze down, the hand cupping his jaw slowing sliding away. Clearing his throat, he responded. “No, no nothing like that.”

They fell silent for a moment longer before Sherlock broke it. “John?”

Keeping his gaze down, John replied. “Is this something you want, Sherlock? You’re not just following my lead because you think it’s what I want—which it is. But it’s not because you want to please me, you actually want this? You want us to be…you want…me?”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied.

John looked up and exhaled a humorless laugh. “That was quick.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “Is that a problem?”

“Well, no. I just…want you to be absolutely sure. Are you?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t need to think about anything?”

“No.”

“You do understand what I’m asking, yes?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“What…?”

“What is it that I’m asking?”

“If I’m sure or not to be in a relationship with you John. Of whether or not I want to with you, which I would think was fairly obvious excluding the fact that I froze when you first kissed me but that is a normal reaction is it not? Other than that I would have believed it to be obvious. Have I taught you nothing?” Sherlock said, attempting to lighten the mood.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, but fell almost immediately back to a sad line. John blinked and then some kind of emotion filled his eyes Sherlock could not put a name to at first glance. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated, only for John to look away.

“John?”

John trembled and stepped back further, their contact agonizingly diminishing. He raised a hand as if telling Sherlock to hold. “Just give me a minute…”

“John you look…frightened—.”

“Stop talking.” John muttered.

“But John—.”

“Shut up!” John hissed, shutting his eyes tightly. Keeping them shut, he continued, a humorless laugh again escaping his lips. “This isn’t real is it? You’re not really there. You’re just the ghost right? The real Sherlock wouldn’t have been that keen for this. He’s probably still in his room right now. You’re just playing tricks on my mind, yes?”

John trembled and grabbed hold of the mantle above the fireplace. He breathed deeply through his nose and slowly breathed out of his mouth. Sherlock stayed still where he was, unsure of what to do. He wanted to hold John and prove to him he was really there but he didn’t want to scare him off.

“John—.”

John waved a hand to tell him to stop. Sherlock ignored him.

“Say my name.”

“What?”

“Say my name John. Yell it, and it’ll prove to you that it’s me, right here. I’m not in another room, I’m right here.”

John kept his eyes shut but Sherlock could tell he was skeptic.

“Go ahead John.”

Keeping his eyes closed, John breathed in deeply and exhaled.

“Sher—SHERLOCK!”

John cautiously peeked open his eyes to see the detective standing in the same spot, unmoved and fortunately the real one. Moving in sync, John and Sherlock hovered forwards and collapsed into each other’s arms. John snuggled his head as deep as he could against Sherlock’s chest, the detective tightening his hold around his friend—well now lover? Partner? Whatever label they may take, they were together now, and that was the important thing.

“I’m sure of this John.” Sherlock said, resting his chin on the top of John’s head. In response, John squeezed his arms tighter around his waist as soft sobs were muffled against the detective’s dressing gown.

“I can’t live without you, Sherlock.” John whispered.

“You won’t have to. I promise.” Sherlock grinned, and pressed a light kiss to the top of his lover’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's that.
> 
> Chapter 6 will be posted on Sunday. I'm editing it now and it's not really going smoothly, but I'll try my best for Sunday. I'm still in the middle of chapter 7 so the next few chapters may be posted a few days later.
> 
> for updates check my tumblr, same username as this one, and pretty please comment!
> 
> EDIT: would you rather have more fluff or more smut or a balance of both? Seriously I'm having trouble with that part.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A whole bunch of fluff and some smut (I had difficulty writing this, so hopefully it's as realistic as possible and makes sense)
> 
> Warning: Smut, probably for mature readers

CHAPTER 6

 

_“We enter the world alone and leave it alone. And everything that happens in between, we owe it to ourselves to find a little company. We need help, we need support; otherwise we’re in it by ourselves. Strangers cut off from each other, and we forget just how connected we all are. So instead we choose love. We choose life. And for a moment, we feel just a little bit less alone.” ~ Meredith Grey_

John and Sherlock waited patiently outside of Doctor Shepherd’s office for his consult. Sherlock’s arm was rested on the armrest, his hand loosely holding his partner’s. It had taken a week to get this appointment, and fortunately for the both of them, that week gave Sherlock enough time to get through the rest of his detox. He had been mainly weak from the exhaustion, yet they had overcome that obstacle and now were ready to face the next one, this time together.

“Everything will be fine.” Sherlock said for the umpteenth time.

“You’ve already said that.”

“Yeah I know, I’m just—.”

“Reassuring yourself?”

“Yeah that.”

John turned his head to look at his friend—lover—and spoke reassuringly. “Sherlock, whatever is wrong, whether the tumor is back or it’s something more, we’ll get through it together, alright?”

Sherlock nodded. John squeezed his hand and in return Sherlock squeezed back. Just then, Sherlock’s phone rang. Rolling his eyes, the detective answered.

“What is it Mycroft?”

John kept his gaze on the detective as his face dropped. Without another word, he hung up.

“Everything all right?” John asked.

Sherlock turned his head to face the other man. “It’s Moran. He’s dead.”

“Just like that?”

“They’re not sure…”

John nodded as he processed the news. “Can you be sure…?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. “He’s at Bart’s, down in the morgue.”

“Well do you want to check, see if it’s really him? I don’t mind waiting alone.”

Sherlock remotely tensed but John caught it.

“I’ll be fine without you for a couple of hours or however long this takes. Don’t worry, go and identity him and I’ll meet you back the flat.”

“You sure?”

John grinned. “Go ahead Sherlock.”

Sherlock grinned back and kissed the other man softly on the lips before letting go of his hand and walking out of the waiting room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Are you absolutely sure?” Sherlock’s baritone voice echoed against the walls of the morgue as he walked in to see Mycroft looking at a body on a slab.

“Ah Sherlock, I take it the detox went well.”

Sherlock didn’t respond to his brother and instead raised an eyebrow for him to get to the point.

Mycroft sighed and moved on. “I wouldn’t have asked you to come by if I was.”

Sherlock looked upon the body and his brows furrowed.

“Well, is it Moran?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“Well there’s not much left to go on is there? Besides, I barely got a good look of him. He could easily wear a disguise. How did you find him?”

“My men found him like this in an abandoned storage unit. Perhaps a business deal gone wrong or a result from other enemies, we’re still trying to track down possible suspects.”

“The Woman faked her death, and I did too, both of us fooling you, so, there’s a possibility that this man can as well. Be absolutely sure that this is him.” Sherlock ordered as he turned around and headed towards the door.

“And what are you going to tell John? Tell him not to worry and everything is done now or that you both are still in danger?”

“What I tell him doesn’t concern you.” Sherlock proclaimed, his voice booming as he marched out the door and out of sight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few hours later, John trudged up the seventeen steps and walked into the sitting room. Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was grim or just plain tired.

“How did it go?”

John pulled off his jacket before answering. “They ran some tests, a CT, you know, that sort of stuff.” John hesitated on the threshold into the kitchen, and continued, however avoiding Sherlock’s gaze with his back towards him. “The tumor’s back.” John said simply. “A bit was left behind last time, which isn’t unheard of. I haven’t scheduled the surgery yet; it’ll be whenever Shepherd’s available I guess.”

Sherlock gulped and hesitantly stood from his chair and made his way to his blogger until he was standing behind him. “I’m sorry John.” The detective murmured.

John turned around and weakly grinned. “Yeah well, I should have expected it.”

Sherlock looked upon his partner. John glared softly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you pity me and I’m doomed. I’m going to survive, Sherlock.” John said defiantly.

Sherlock grinned. “Yes you will.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of John’s mouth.

“So Moran? Is he dead?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded into the crook of John’s neck. “He’s dead.” He said and continued snuggling against the other man’s neck.

John’s grim appearance lightened and he smiled. “Right…good. We can finally move on.” Sherlock hummed against his skin.

“I didn’t take you for such a snuggler.” John teased.

Before Sherlock could respond, John pushed Sherlock gently away. He leaned in, and pressed their lips together, full of affection and beyond the chastity they had been doing before. Sherlock kissed back full on, pressing forwards so their bodies where touching. He trailed his hand to John’s lower back as the other man rested one hand on his waist and the other cupping the detective’s jaw.

The pair moved simultaneously into the hallway, Sherlock taking lead. He didn’t stop until John’s back was against the wall, his hands having drifted to the doctor’s hips. John pressed forward as much as he could to be closer to the other man, and settled his hands around his lower back, in an attempt to bring him closer. They kissed passionately and when John leaned away for a breath of air, Sherlock trailed his soft lips to John’s neck, pausing sporadically to suck and kiss and leave his mark. Sherlock slowly lowered himself as he traveled down John’s body, making his way past his collarbone to his chest, pressing kisses through the fabric.

The doctor removed his hands from Sherlock’s back and began unbuttoning his own cardigan. Pushing it aside, he began with his shirt. Once the buttons were taken care of, he pushed the sides away, baring as much torso as possible for Sherlock to caress. The detective wrapped his arms around John’s waist, caressing the bare skin beneath his fingers as his lips trailed the other side of the blogger’s neck.

John’s hands went for Sherlock’s shirt and roughly began unbuttoning it. The moment skin was revealed; he trailed his hands all over, feeling the smooth sculpture-like build of the detective. Sherlock pressed John back closer to the wall, still trailing his hands along John’s bare torso. A soft moan escaped his throat, sending a shiver down John’s spine. He pushed him back slightly and placed a hand just above Sherlock’s belt and paused. Breaking their lips but still close enough to feel each other’s breath, John spoke.

“May I?” He asked, his intentions quite clear.

Sherlock bit his lip hesitantly and raised his head, his eyes focused on the wall just above John’s head. “I don’t—I think we should…wait.”

John, much to Sherlock’s relief, smiled. “That’s fine. Waiting is good.”

Sherlock relaxed and looked down to lock their gazes. John leaned up and kissed him softly on the lips, his tongue keeping its distance for an innocent moment before pushing in for entry. Sherlock kissed him back, pressing further as much as he could to feel John’s bare torso against his own.

Abruptly, John stilled. Unreasonable fear lingered down Sherlock’s spine as he pulled back and looked at John, his heart pounding in his ears. John’s eyes were unfocused as his arms slowly dropped from Sherlock’s torso to his sides.

“John?” Sherlock asked incredibly quietly, he wasn’t even sure John heard him.

John slowly looked up to Sherlock and then his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed into Sherlock’s arms.

“John? John!”

The man began to shake uncontrollably; his whole body twitched violently as saliva drooled down from the corner of his mouth. Sherlock hurriedly laid his lover sideways onto the floor and gently held his neck and head as stable as he could.

The seizure died down only after about thirty seconds, but John remained unconscious. Sherlock swiftly made his way to his chair where he left his phone and dialed the emergency number for an ambulance. He knelt back down while the tone rang and placed his hand protectively on John’s shoulder as he waited for help.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the A&E, the detective and his blogger were placed in a corner bed, fortunately surrounded by empty ones. John was currently asleep as the doctor spoke with Sherlock.

“He most likely had a seizure. That’s normal for patients with a tumor like this.”

“Will it happen again?”

“It can. You just have to pay attention to the signs and act accordingly. Don’t worry Mr. Holmes you did the right thing. When he wakes up, he may not remember what has happened, so you can inform him about it. I will be back when he does to discuss his operation. I can make adjustments in my schedule because of this development in the severity of his condition. If you have any more questions, just let me know.” Dr. Shepherd concluded with a sympathetic nod and left Sherlock by John’s bedside.

His cardigan and shirt had been taken off and a heart monitor was attached to his chest; an oxygen mask had been placed over his mouth while he slept. Sherlock remained still and at a distance from his partner, his hands resting on the bed but without contact with John’s. The detective felt out of place; he was unsure of what to do and what to think.

Before he could get lost into whatever thoughts that would invade his mind, John’s hand stirred once then stilled, and then again.

Blinking his eyes haggardly, John groaned as his eyes wandered to Sherlock’s figure. His eyes focused more and more as seconds ticked by and soon enough he lifted a hand, despite his arm and joints feeling heavy, and tugged the mask off from his mouth.

John took deep breaths, closing his eyes in heavy blinks. Swallowing thickly, he spoke.

“What—er, what happened?”

“You had a seizure.” Sherlock responded with his head tilted down.

John stared at Sherlock, taking in his appearance. “You don’t look so good.” John breathed out.

Obviously avoiding John’s eyes now, Sherlock shifted in his seat and unlike him, he clumsily stood up and left the bedside, speaking as he walked away. “I’d better get the doctor. He said he wanted to talk to you once you were awake.”

John could barely get out an “oh” by the time Sherlock made it to the front desk.

…

“I recommend surgery as soon as possible. The seizures could develop a pattern or happen unexpectedly. The tumor is fairly simple to reach, so the surgery won’t be incredibly invasive. We can try to get the whole thing out this time, however, that may require for a longer operation.”

“What are my chances? Of living with it versus having surgery?”

“Surgery is always a risk. However, because of your current symptoms, seizures and hallucinations, over time it is very likely that they will worsen. I am available this week, if you were to chose surgery, the sooner the better.”

The doctor and John discussed his options as Sherlock partially listened beside John’s bed. He didn’t say or ask anything, and John wished he would. John hesitantly moved his hand to hold Sherlock’s, however the detective flinched and withdrew it from the bed. Not a minute passed when he dismissed himself abruptly and headed out the front doors of the A&E.

Dr. Shepherd nodded to John sympathetically. “It’s normal for loved ones to avoid their significant others at times like this. It’s a kind of coping mechanism.”

John weakly laughed, although it was humorless. “We’re not even lovers.” He muttered without thinking.

“Oh—.”

“Well, actually, we are. But not…completely. Or, er—it’s complicated.”

Dr. Shepherd nodded and remained silent for a moment before speaking. “It’s none of my business, but I had a friend a while back and he said…he said to tell the one you love that you love them.” The doctor smiled to John, his eyes glistening with nostalgia. “He said you tell them, even if you’re scared that it’s not the right thing. Even if it could cause problems. Even if you’re scared that it will burn your life to the ground, you say it, out loud, and then go from there.”

John grinned at the doctor and nodded. “Thanks…”

“No problem.” Dr. Shepherd nodded and grinned, and then turned on his heal and left, with one last call back. “Call me on what you decide. I’ll get the nurse to discharge you.”

With that he left, and John was alone, and wanting everything in the world to be able to say it now. If only Sherlock was here.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Outside in the cold evening air, Sherlock stood straight, back against a wall just outside the emergency room, with a cigarette in his hand. An ambulance had arrived a minute ago and Dr. Shepherd had made his way out to greet it. That meant John would probably be discharged soon and he should go back in. But for some reason, he couldn’t move his legs. He didn’t want to see John. Because seeing John would be walking proof that he was sick and that this wasn’t some kind of cruel nightmare he was having. John’s sick and could actually die, and Sherlock—the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes—couldn’t do anything to prevent it from happening. There was no possible strategy to avoid this kind of potential loss. So he stayed by the side of the hospital and smoked.

He drew in a long drag of the cigarette and then slowly breathed out. Behind him a voice spoke.

“Should we head home then?” John asked, his tone strictly impassive that is sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. He whipped around to see John and his breath caught. _I stand corrected!_

John looked worse outside of the hospital; he was pale and exhausted, his clothes were messily put back on apart from his jacket, which had been left behind at Baker Street, and he did indeed look sick.

“They shouldn’t have discharged you.” Sherlock said as John stepped forward and took the cigarette out of the detective’s hand and dropped it to the ground, putting it out with his shoe. In response to Sherlock, John merely shrugged and remained silent, however tilted his head up and looked up at the taller man.

Sherlock avoided his eyes and swiftly removed his coat and draped it around John’s shoulders. John kept his gaze steady and stern as he allowed the detective’s kindhearted act to take place.

“…Thanks.” John said without moving his gaze.

Sherlock finally looked at him and a weak grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. John grinned back; it was more of a sad grin, a glisten in his eyes sparkled and looked like single stars that trailed in the night sky above them. Sherlock’s weak grin fell and he gulped uneasily. It was John who finally broke the silence.

“I’m not having surgery. For now at least. I want to wait and see if I can cope with the symptoms…who knows, maybe they’ll die down or not happen as much…but Sherlock, I need you.” He began slowly but blunt. “I know you have difficulty understanding whatever emotions that run at high speed in your head but…I need you to at least stay with me—” John’s voice trembled and he took a breath of pause.

When he continued, his voice gained stability and a slight urgency in his tone. “Even if you’re silent, just be with me. ‘Cause I won’t go through this without you. I can’t do this alone, not like last time so please—.”

Sherlock shushed him softly. “Shh John don’t think that. You’re right. I should have stayed. I’m…I’m sorry.” His hands fidgeted by his sides and he raised them, adjusting the coat to be tighter around John. John stepped forward and ducked his arms around the other man’s waist. Standing on his toes to reach, he snuggled his nose into Sherlock’s neck, who snuggled into John’s as well, tightening their embrace.

After what felt like several minutes, Sherlock loosened his grip and leaned away to see John’s face. With their arms still around each other, they leaned in simultaneously and kissed each other, soft at first then deeper and passionately.

A thought sparked in Sherlock’s head and he broke the kiss gently, without breaking any distance in between them.

For a moment he bit his lip, thinking. John furrowed his eyebrows and slowly drew back. Sherlock stopped him and brought him closer.

The detective let out a breath and then spoke. “We can.”

John’s eyebrows creased further and he looked intently into Sherlock’s eyes. They were sparkling with desire and his intention became clearer.

“Are-Are you sure? Why now?” John asked, keeping his rising desire grounded as much as possible.

“Yes. Because—.” Sherlock claimed but cut himself off. The reason could possibly be a bit not good. John examined his expression and it dawned on him.

“Because I might die.”

Biting his lip again, Sherlock nodded.

“Do you want this Sherlock?” John asked.

Sherlock bit his lip.

“Sherlock?”

Taking in a shuddering breath, the detective spoke, keeping his gaze above John’s head. “I’m…scared to want you John. Yet here I am, wanting you anyway. I’m going to screw this up—I’m not good at relationships, yet here I am. I want this.”

“I do too.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped down to look at John, his pupils dilating just slightly. “So…all right then.” John concluded and smiled.

A smile tugged on the corner of Sherlock’s lips, but new concern wiped it away. “But wait, shouldn’t you rest?”

John shrugged. “I should. But I could always rest later…”

Shyly Sherlock smiled back and then leaned in and captured John’s lips, deepening the kiss immediately. Excitement, nervousness, desire, and possibly even love surrounded the pair as they made their way home back to Baker Street.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before the front door even closed shut, Sherlock’s hands were already on his coat that was around John’s shoulders and in the process of taking it off. He followed with his cardigan and shirt while directing John towards the stairs. John went along, making mere attempts with Sherlock’s own clothes but couldn’t seem to get Sherlock to sit still.

“Sherlock,” John giggled softly. “I want to take your clothes off too if you just pause for a moment—finally!” Sherlock stepped back for precisely a moment as John took his jacket off and began unbuttoning his dress shirt. Still walking backwards up the stairs, John was put on halt as his back came in contact with the door.

Without going in right away, Sherlock kissed John with quick, loving pecks across his mouth and then trailed his lips down his jaw and neck.

“Shouldn’t we go in? If Mrs. Hudson comes up she might see us.”

Sherlock nipped his collarbone, causing a light gasp from John. He licked the tender area before pulling back a fraction. “All right, but first…” He stepped back and looked at John, his eyes blazing. “Take your pants off.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock and John lied on the bed, the detective’s arm underneath John’s back, almost cradling his shoulder blades and neck. His other hand trailed down to the blogger’s hip and gripped it gently. He settled himself between John’s legs, which because of his shorter stature, were wrapped around Sherlock’s shins.

John trailed his fingers along Sherlock’s marble back before settling just above his arse. They were already both naked bare; completely exposed only to each other. Their cocks lined up almost perfectly, and already leaking with pre-cum. John tilted his chin up and exposed his neck to his lover. Sherlock leaned down and pressed the softest touch against his Adam’s apple as John’s fingertips continued to caress Sherlock’s back, one hand teasing it’s way farther down.

John let out a sigh of content and moved a hand to cup Sherlock’s jaw. He tilted it towards him and placed a meaningful kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Pulling apart, he whispered against the detective’s lips.

“I don’t suppose you have any…lube?”

The tiniest bit of blush crept on Sherlock’s cheeks. “In the drawer. I’ll get it.” He reached for the drawer and pulled out the tube, then handing it to John. Applying a generous amount of lubricant to his hand, John then took hold of Sherlock’s now fully hard cock. The detective gasped, his eyes fluttering with a spark of pleasure. John grinned and then began to stroke in long gently pulls. Sherlock pressed himself closer to John, and placed his own hand over John’s own cock. Together they slowly applied a rhythmus motion of their hips and hands and rocked…

Moans escaped their mouths, their noses touching as they gained a pleasant rhythm…

“I-I don’t think I’m going to last long—.” John declared.

“It’s all right. It’s— _oh John_!” Sherlock cried out as he ducked in closer and captured John’s lips passionately against his. John cupped Sherlock’s jaw and then trailed his hand to Sherlock’s nape to bring them impossibly closer.

“John…” Sherlock breathed out. He was close…so very close…

_“Come what may. I won’t fade away. But I know I might change.”_

“Sherlock, I’m…I’m—.”

“Go ahead John.”

_“Nothing comes easily. Fill this empty space. Nothing is like it was, turn my grief to grace.”_

John gasped his lover’s name to the ceiling, and Sherlock closely followed, his baritone voice moaning John’s name to his lover’s ear…

_“I just want to feel your embrace.”_

Sherlock weakly slumped onto the bed; John breathed deeply beside him. They remained silent for a moment before John stumbled out of the bed and came back with a warm washcloth in hand. He wiped them clean and then laid back down, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and tangling their legs.

“Was that…” Sherlock began awkwardly.

“Good.” John finished. “It really was, Sherlock.” The detective turned his head and saw utter adoration in John’s eyes and smiled. John smiled back, and silence encircled them again. On the verge of sleep, they both got lost in their thoughts.

_“I love you John.”_

_“I love you Sherlock.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The medical facts and protocols have been exaggerated for strictly fiction uses.
> 
> this quote: "...he said to tell the one you love that you love them.” The doctor smiled to John, his eyes glistening with nostalgia. “He said you tell them, even if you’re scared that it’s not the right thing. Even if it could cause problems. Even if you’re scared that it will burn your life to the ground, you say it, out loud, and then go from there.” is from Grey's Anatomy
> 
> this quote: "...“I’m…scared to want you [John]. Yet here I am, wanting you anyway." is also Grey's Anatomy
> 
> Lyrics during sex scene is from Kate Havnevik's Grace, which I listened to countless times while writing this and it just seemed to fit and it was the song playing during a sex scene from... you guessed it, Grey's Anatomy. I don't own the lyrics.
> 
> thanks for reading and stay tuned next week for chapter 7 and PLEASE comment, they really make my day :)
> 
> ~EM


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy, here it is... things are starting to speed up.
> 
> The types of cars mentioned, I apologize I don't know anything about British cars so I just used what I see on a normal basis. Other than that, enjoy! and please leave comments! they make my day.
> 
> ~Erin
> 
> Edit: Check out the amazing masterpiece by SweetLittleKitty, based off the dinner in this chapter. Link down below in the end notes, because no one wants a spoiler, right? Although, it's probably why you're here, so welcome! And enjoy the rest of the story. :)

PART 7

 

_“It seems we have no control, whatsoever, over our own hearts. Conditions can change without warning. Romance can make the heart pound, just like panic can. And panic can make it stop cold in your chest. It’s not wonder doctors spend so much time trying to keep the heart stable, to keep it slow, steady, regular, to stop the heart from pounding out of your chest from the dread of something terrible, or the anticipation of something else entirely.”  ~ Meredith Grey_

John opened his eyes sluggishly to morning light streaming through the blinds of Sherlock’s bedroom. He blinked against the light intrusion and found himself comfortably curled up against Sherlock’s side, his head tucked under Sherlock’s arm, resting softly against his shoulder. John’s hand was resting over the detective’s abdomen, as if it had a right to be there.

But it did. It had been only four days. Four days of no hallucinations. Four days that were spent occasionally making love and then fulfilling vital needs such as eating and sleeping. John was a bit surprised that Sherlock wasn’t bored yet and searching for a case. He grinned warmly and snuggled closer to the other man, absorbing the warmth his body was giving off freely. Sherlock stirred beside him and spoke, his baritone voice vibrating against John.

“Ah, good, you’re awake.”

John felt full consciousness rise in his body at that voice and tilted his head to see Sherlock facing him; his eyes were wide open and lucid of sleep.

“How long have you been up?” John asked, his voice soft and light.

Sherlock shrugged. “A couple of hours…”

John shifted his body, turning completely towards Sherlock and ascending casually onto Sherlock’s body until he was laying head to toe on top of the detective, knees to knees, hips to hips, chest to chest. He smiled at the detective, and then leaned down a bit further and captured his lips with a light touch.

Just as Sherlock’s hands began to wander their way from John’s back to the waistband of his pants, John leaned back, breaking the kiss. A whimper escaped Sherlock’s throat, catching himself off guard.

“I don’t know where that came from.” He claimed, a light blushing rising on his cheeks.

John chuckled. “I didn’t think you’d be so…” His brows furrowed in concentration for the right word.

Sherlock grinned proudly. “Merciful, affectionate, enigmatic…”

“Clingy.”

Sherlock tried to pull his best-affronted expression, but was cut off when John leaned back in and kissed him deeper, more passionately than the former one.

Unfortunately, their morning was interrupted by John’s phone, ringing on the bedside table. Sighing, John sat up, and while straddling Sherlock’s hips, reached forward and answered it. It was Doctor Shepherd.

Sherlock eyed John’s expression going from attentive to serious and understanding, indicating possible bad news. John hung up and looked down at the detective’s face to see his eyebrows furrowing with unease.

John sighed tiredly. “That was Doctor Shepherd; he wants me to come back in and run a MRI scan. There’s indication of something on the CT but it’s not clear enough…so he wants me to go back in.”

Sherlock nodded. Hesitantly, he sat up and leaned back against the headboard. John eased off of his hips and sat on the edge, feet touching the floor.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Sherlock asked, uncertainty creeping softly in his tone.

John grinned reassuring. “No you don’t have to. Go and bother Greg for a case, I’m sure he would love you’re help now that you’re back.”

“Quite right.” Sherlock murmured and grinned. John kissed him softly on the lips and then left the bedroom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So I’ll be back soon.” John called from the doorway, pulling his jacket on over his jumper. Sherlock sat in his chair, dressed in trousers and the purple shirt John always seemed to be mesmerized by.

Sherlock looked up, his fingers resting on the neck of his violin, and nodded. John hurried forward and placed a lingering kiss over Sherlock’s lips. The detective kissed him back for a moment before John leaned away. “See you later.” He murmured, and then turned around and left.

Sherlock continued plucking at the strings, deep in thought, when an hour later, the familiar tap of an umbrella was heard against the stairs, and soon after, Mycroft appeared in the doorway.

Without bothering to look up at his brother, Sherlock sighed dramatically.

“Took you long enough.” Sherlock remarked. Before his brother could reply, he continued. “What do you want now?”

“Perhaps this is just a visit, to see how things are coming along.”

“Nice choice of wording.” Sherlock sneered.  

“Don’t be so childish Sherlock—.”

“John’s gone out and will be back soon. Whatever it is that brought you here, you might as well get on with it, I don’t have all day.” Sherlock interrupted.

Mycroft grinned cheekily, but there was something lingering in his eyes that caught Sherlock off guard (for once).

“What is it?” He asked.

Mycroft sighed and sat down in John’s armchair. “Moran. He’s not dead.”

Sherlock nodded distantly. “That’s what I thought.”

“The longer he’s out there, the greater threat he becomes.”

“I don’t suppose you have a photo of him. A recent one, I mean for all I know he could be—.”

Sherlock froze suddenly, narrowing his eyes, and thinking of a possibility. Mycroft saved his time and cut in.

“It’s not this Doctor Shepherd—.”

“Who else could it be then? What kind of surgeon leaves a private practice in New York to come here to London and get paid less?”

“A damn good one.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“You should be grateful for Shepherd’s work. He’s one of the best in the field, arguably from some, _the_ best.”

“You did a background check on him.” Sherlock stated.

“Of course. I had usable information at hand so the hospital wouldn’t sue you for interfering.” Mycroft said, his tone becoming sterner by the last word.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And what was this _useful_ information?”

This time, Mycroft scoffed. “About him still being married yet having an affair with one of his interns.”

“Uh, dull.” Sherlock muttered.

“To him, not so…”

“You’re sure it’s not him.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You think so?”

Sherlock shrugged and looked away. “It’s possible. And the timeline fits.”

“Timeline?”

“You did research as did I. He began emerging in medical journals around the time of Moriarty’s return. He’d spent time in the army too, which fits Moran’s supposed background: military experience and such forth.” Sherlock explained quickly.

“Don’t go dwelling on this Sherlock.” Mycroft warned. “I can have a further look if it would help you sleep at night—.”

“I don’t need help to sleep—.”

“And I will let you know _if_ anything comes up.”

“So…your plan.” Sherlock sarcastically encouraged his brother to proceed, pretending to have an interest in his brilliant devise.

“Who says I have a plan?”

Sherlock sighed. “You always have _some kind_ of plan.”

“Well, it has its holes, so to speak. First and foremost, Moran is alive. You told John he’s dead. You might want to break the news soon, before he… _contacts_ John.”

Sherlock sighed irritably. “He hasn’t done anything so far…for all we know he could be dead.”

“He’s not.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Sherlock scoffed again, this time annoyed with Mycroft’s extreme measures. “And your plan is?”

“Yes, well, it is up to you mostly, to tell John or not, but either way he will be—.”

“Bait.”

“That’s one way of seeing it. It is a high likelihood that Moran will kidnap John. You can tell John that Moran is alive, but I recommend not telling him that he will be kidnapped in few days time.”

“And how do you know that?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.

“CCTV cameras caught sight of a man matching Moran’s description, however his face is once again out of sight. He was spotted just around the corner a few days ago, and other places surrounding, possibly to get a feel of the place. Intel also shares that Moran may be attempting to reconnect with others to reinstate Moriarty's network.”

“That's probable, but who would he go to? I've ensured all other contacts to be taken care of. Besides, where has he been all this time?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Scouting the place? Ensuring his new contacts and waiting for the right moment? It doesn’t matter now, he has been sighted which suggests he’s ready to come out of hiding and perhaps…lure your attention to him.”

Sherlock gasped softly with comprehension. “So I will not miss the moment he takes John which will give me a chance to save him, bringing the two of us together…then why doesn’t he just kidnap us both?”

“Perhaps he just wants John for now…”

Sherlock sighed. “So…I have to come up with some kind of plan to get us both out of there and either kill or apprehend Moran? Of course, always leave me with the tough parts.”

“I’m sure you could come up with something.”

Sherlock stared at his brother, narrowing his eyes. He stared at his brother for several minutes, participating in silent deductions and an arguing conversation. With finality, it was Mycroft who broke the silence, seriousness and warning leaking profusely in his tone.

“You want to be careful playing with sentiment and feelings like that Sherlock. Maybe last time you distanced yourself, but now as your relationship…” Mycroft paused, looking for the right phrase. “Has evolved…it’s not just _your_ feelings to consider. It may be easier if—”

“Don’t lecture me on sentiment again, Mycroft.” Sherlock spat, a cold hard stare gleaming in his eyes. “The game has changed. Sentiment is the only way to end it now. I’m not playing with anyone’s emotions; I’m just using them as an advantage. What I feel for John Watson is no concern to you!”

Mycroft clicked his tongue. “So you won’t tell him.”

“Not yet.”

“If it doesn’t go well, worst case scenario he dies.”

“Or I drain him off all his emotions he has left to offer.” Sherlock suggested.

“Oh so now a broken heart is worse than death.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic. If it all goes my way, he won’t even see a thing.”

“And then what? Rely on me to clean up the mess?”

Sherlock scoffed again but didn’t say anything.

“Enough with the scoffing Sherlock. You’re not a child anymore so stop acting like one.” Mycroft said sternly.

Sherlock ignored him. “Next you’ll be reminding me that ‘caring is not an advantage’. I’d love to prove you wrong.”

“This isn’t about me. It’s about John.”

Sherlock glared at him for the nauseating reminder.

“I take it you’ll be needing some…supplies from me?”

Sherlock grinned maliciously. “Ah, brother, you know me so well.”

“Perhaps we are more alike than you like to believe.” Sherlock exposed a look of disgust in response.

Pounding footsteps interrupted the brothers as Lestrade barged in, out of breath and pale as a sheet.

“Blimey, don’t you ever answer you’re phone?”

“Good to see you too Inspector.” Sherlock mocked. “What is it this time?”

“It’s John.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I thought you said you had people keeping an eye on him.” Sherlock hissed to his brother as they hurriedly walked past emergency vehicles a couple of streets away from Doctor Shepherd’s office.

“I have people keeping an eye on both of you. This visit to the hospital wasn’t scheduled, we had limited time to—.”

“Oh do shut up Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped as he brushed past Donovan. Looking over his shoulder, he called back, "Double check on Derek Shepherd." He demanded without any explanation and Mycroft nodded and then left; Lestrade finally caught up with them and followed after Sherlock.

John was sitting on the bumper of the ambulance as a paramedic hovered nearby, applying thin gauze to his forehead and cheek; his fists and knuckles were also bruised. Sherlock rushed towards him however froze in his step as an icy glare pierced through his stride. John was furious.

Sherlock gulped, guilt creeping in his chest. He slowly walked towards his lover, biting his lip and keeping his gaze distant.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked, revealing real concern in his tone.

John glared at him, his eyes fuming with all sorts of emotions that Sherlock couldn’t identify all of it; anger was the obvious one.

“Does it look like I’m all right?” John snapped. He flinched from the sudden movement and brought his hand up and rubbed his sore jaw. He breathed deeply and raggedly, no doubt from having the wind knocked out of him. John locked his gaze to Sherlock, his eyes still fuming with an icy glare.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He hissed, flinching again, this time as the paramedic finished tapping the gauze to his cheek. “Did it ever cross your brilliant mind that I would want to know that a man is still out there trying to kill me?”

Sherlock gulped and took a step closer. “I realize that now.”

John scoffed. “You’ve been realizing a lot lately.” He mumbled.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Sorry?”

John scoffed and glared at Sherlock. “First you pretend to be a ghost. Then you try to hide a drug relapse. And then you assure me that we’re safe and this Moran guy is as good as dead, well guess what Sherlock? This whole thing of keeping _necessary_ information from me is working. It’s working absolutely fucking brilliantly.” He snapped mordantly.

“It was for your own go—.”

“Oh don’t you pull that shit with me again! Not this time! You don’t work alone Sherlock. I’ve been here this whole fucking time; I could have helped or done something. You need to tell me if my life is in danger because I feel like it only is when you don’t tell me anything!” John bellowed, earning gaping looks from nearby onlookers. He lowered his voice to a furious hiss and continued. “There have been too many times recently when all I want to do is punch you in the face!”

Sherlock lifted his chin and straightened his posture. “You’re right. I’m sorry John. I shouldn’t have kept it from you. You deserved to know.” Sherlock’s posture buckled just slightly, and he lowered his chin and gaze. “It won’t happen again.”

John nodded distantly.Sherlock continued, hushing his voice. “Did you see his face, John? Did he say anything to you?”

John laughed humorlessly. “Oh so now you want my help?”

Sherlock glared back at him. “I don’t have an accurate picture of his face. He has pulled various disguises in the past. Just tell me what you saw.”

John sighed. “He was wearing a kind of ski mask.” He looked at the ground, the icy stare turning into plain hurt and disappointment.

“He said this is just the beginning and that he will strike again—.” John abruptly coughed roughly, tensing up from the strained movement.

Sherlock nodded and then took another hesitant step forward until he was close enough he could wrap an arm around his blogger. But he didn’t.

“Your knuckles are bruised. You put up a fight.” Sherlock stated, a tremor of pride leaking in his tone.

“Yeah, and a pretty damn good one. Nearly knocked him out. But then he went for my shoulder…”

“You should go to the hospital. What about Shepherd, isn’t he expecting you?”

John finally looked up to the detective, sighing with weariness. He stood up from the bumper and after gaining a steady balance he spoke.  “I was actually on my way back; he wasn’t there but had an intern run the scan and he’ll call later after he takes a look at them.”

Sherlock nodded but couldn’t help seeing disappointment now obvious in John’s facial expression. “John…” He began.

John looked back at him, his lip trembling just slightly; an ordinary person would have easily missed it. “Mhm?” He couldn’t seem to form a word without his voice trembling.

“I think I should say that I—I didn’t mean—I didn’t want—.” Sherlock bit his lip and looked down, unusually lost for words.

John nodded understandably and continued looking at the ground. “I know. It’s all right, I guess. You were just doing it to distract me. To be honest, I’m not surprised—.”

“What?” Sherlock looked up, his brows furrowing. “No, that’s not what I—.”

John snapped his head up and locked his gaze with the detective. They stared at each other in silence for several heartbeats before Sherlock was the one to break it.

“I’m still in this John.” He explained softly, leaning forwards just an inch closer to his blogger.

The disappointment nearly vanished at once and his face relaxed quite significantly. “Oh, right. Okay…good.” He said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock stepped closer and pressed a light kiss to John’s forehead. His lips lingered for a moment, as John pressed further into the touch. They leaned back and grinned, the glaring fading completely.

A movement behind Sherlock caught John’s eye and his breathing hitched, as his eyes grew unfocused. He kept his gaze beyond Sherlock’s head and his whole body tensed. Sherlock pressed a hand on John’s right shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“John?”

John blinked rapidly, his vision focusing. He cleared his throat and look at Sherlock. “Just, um, I already gave Greg my statement. Can we go home now?”

“All right.” Sherlock murmured and wrapped an arm around John’s waist as they headed back to Baker Street.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Halfway to Baker Street, and Sherlock decided to stop by St. Bart’s to pick up some body parts for his new experiments. John decided to wait outside; having spent more than a week in the hospital a few months ago was good enough for him, and he had no desire now to go back in and smell the antiseptic and faint odor of death.

Quicker than John thought, Sherlock came striding out the door, empty handed. “Stupid imbeciles…” He muttered.

“No good?” John asked.

“Molly wasn’t there.” Sherlock explained, turning on his heal and continued heading to their flat.Passing Angelo’s on the way, the smell of the restaurant tingled John’s senses and he realized he hadn’t eaten much at all today.

“Hey, Sherlock. Do you mind if we have an early dinner?”

Sherlock nodded. “Sure.”

The pair walked in and settled down in their usual seat. Sherlock took his scarf and coat off and settled it by his side, and John followed, getting comfortable in their seat. He was unusually closer to John, but neither seemed to mind. In fact, they both seemed to simultaneously lean closer to the other one, their hands resting on the table, their fingers grazing each other whenever John flipped the page of the menu.

Once John decided on his order, he caught sight of Angelo and waved. The owner waved back, however didn’t make his way to the table just yet.

“Bit busy for the afternoon.” John remarked.

Sherlock didn’t respond. Instead, he slowly reached his hand closer to John’s, and tentatively took the other man’s hand into his own. John grinned at him, and was granted one in return.

“You know, this could be sort of…um…” John licked his lips and paused. “Like a—a date, you know, if that’s okay with you.” He finished quickly.

A slow grin appeared on Sherlock’s face, and then he smiled—the kind of smile he rarely exposed, and John has seen only a few times before. A flutter arose in John’s abdomen and he smiled back, tightening his hold in his hand.

As quick as it appeared, the smile fell and Sherlock’s face relaxed with more of a grin tugging at his lips.

“John I—“

“Sherlock wait…there’s something I want to say, and haven’t yet, but I…want to say it now if that’s okay?” John interrupted.

Sherlock swallowed nervously and nodded, holding his gaze with his blogger.

“I’m still hurt that you didn’t tell me about Moran, or about anything else, like the graveyard and the drugs…but it’s done now and I hope you trust me enough to share what you’re thinking and planning on doing…” John began, this time his face expressing a tone of wariness.

He cleared his throat and continued. “What I’m trying to say is that…”

“Mhm, yes?” Sherlock encouraged.

John held his gaze within the oceanic currents of the man in front of him, and confessed.

“I love you.”

The minute the last syllable was spoken, a rush of relief flooded John and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. He smiled and found Sherlock to be staring at him, unblinking and somewhat expressionless apart from the slight furrow in his brow. The smile slowly dropped to an awkward grin, and John looked away, his hand loosely falling out of the other man’s grasp.

Several, unnerving minutes passed in silence, Sherlock still staring and John trying to distract himself by trying to get the attention of Angelo, who had been constantly on his phone, occasionally nodding towards John as “give me a moment” before going back to his phone.

John inwardly huffed. _God I’m hungry. And stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid idiot you are John. You couldn’t wait until you got home could you? Idiot._

John sighed and looked up, realizing Sherlock’s face had changed to that of…something. Was it pity? Or regret?

A dread shock of horror traveled down John’s spine. He retook his hand in his and spoke before Sherlock could get a word formed.

“You don’t need to say it back Sherlock. A nod or affirmation that you heard me would be perfectly fine.”

“John—.” Sherlock finally spoke. “Can you…”

 _Gosh he sounds like he’s going to be sick._ John thought.

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes traveling back and forth from John’s eyes to the street to the front door then to the table and back to John. “Can you let go of my hand?” He choked out.

John stilled, and reluctantly let go of Sherlock’s hand, dropping his own into his lap.

_God what is taking so long for that bloody wine!_

Keeping his eyes fixed on the table; Sherlock shifted an obvious inch away from John, back to a space of purely platonic. His hand traveled to his coat but only lay there awkwardly.

John gulped, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. “Are you going to leave Sherlock?”

“I—I’m so sorry John—.”

Suddenly the front door burst open and a flurry of long legs and a black coat came traveling to John and Sherlock’s table.

The consulting detective paused in front of John, out of breath and flushed after an obvious sprint from Bart’s. It took John a painfully long moment to look up from the table and see the man standing in front of him.

The blogger’s face drained and paled—sickly pale—and his eyes froze on the sight of Sherlock. Stiffly, John forced his gaze to the man still sitting by him; it was Sherlock too, looking at anything but John.

John groaned silently, bringing a trembling hand to his face and covered his mouth like he was going to be sick. His breathing hitched and then he tried taking in deep breaths, but was only succeeding in gasping, shallow ones. He looked back up. Sherlock was looking at him, his eyes swimming with sympathy and a range of others John couldn’t name.

The army doctor stumbled out of his seat and shakily stood up. He took one last look at the two men, eyes wide and prickling with tears, and then he turned on his heel and ran, leaving his jacket and lover behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock stood still where he was and stared at an empty booth. Angelo had texted him that John showed up alone and appeared to be talking to someone, and he immediately knew what was wrong. He was with Molly for only forty-five minutes, but sometime before he was finished was when John saw a hallucination and followed it instead.

Gaining composure after a few more minutes, Sherlock grabbed John’s discarded jacket and hurried out the door. He had seen John heading down the street, but not towards their flat. He turned a couple of corners and soon found sight of John, hunched over and hurling in an alleyway.

Sherlock stepped behind John and the sudden tension in John’s back told him John knew he was there.

“Just leave me alone.” John rasped, coughing up the last of the bile.

“You left you’re jacket.” Sherlock said simply.

John straightened up and slowly turned around. He kept his eyes to the ground, forcing himself to avoid Sherlock’s face. He took the jacket and murmured a ‘thanks’, but didn’t put it on.

Sherlock remained silent and didn’t move. John didn’t either. Several moments passed before a sniffle interrupted it, followed but a suck of air and then another sniffle.

“How do I know it’s really you?” John whispered.

“I brought you your jacket didn’t I?”

John sighed comprehensively. Sherlock slowly reached out a gloved hand and lifted John’s chin to meet his eye.

John flinched away, his eyes finally meeting Sherlock’s. The detective felt a punch in the gut at the sight of his lover. He was still sickly pale and his eyes were rimmed red, tears prickling his eyes but not daring to shed.

“I’m going to have the surgery. Sometime next week.” John stated.

Sherlock nodded understandably. “Did—did Dr. Shepherd get back to you?”

John looked away and nodded. “He did. A few minutes ago. The MRI didn’t show anything different, just a better picture of what’s going on inside. He’s positive to get the whole thing out this time.”

Sherlock nodded again. He knew John was withholding something, but chose to confront him about it later—or perhaps ask is a better term for it.

John remained standing and Sherlock took his chance. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his lover protectively. John attempted to step back and squirmed at first but then the weight of everything was too much and he sunk further into the detective’s arms, silently crying into his coat.

After a few moments, the shuddering suppressed and John shifted his head away just enough so Sherlock could hear him.

“We just can’t seem to get a break can we?” He claimed with a light chuckle to lighten the mood.

“Apparently so…but it’ll be over soon.” Sherlock whispered. John wondered if that was directed to him or to comfort Sherlock himself. Whoever it was for, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist as the detective kept his hands where they were; wrapped around his shoulder blades and his other hand cradling the back of John’s neck.

A black Sedan screeched down the street, slamming to a sudden stop in front of the detective and his blogger. The pair began to hurry away as a door flew open. The passenger window went down, and upon seeing the figure, Sherlock stopped in his tracks. John looked wildly at the figure and with recognition, relaxed just a fraction, leaning into Sherlock’s arms still wrapped around him protectively.

“Mycroft!”

“Get in the car now!”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond with a retort, but John pushed out of his arms and went into the car without question, sitting behind the driver; Sherlock followed suit, buckling in and reaching for the door. Before he could get the door closed, the car sped away.

“What the hell is going on?” John exclaimed whilst buckling his seatbelt.

“Moran is coming for you John.” Mycroft exclaimed, straining his neck to look behind the seat. “My men were tailing him; he was spotted nearby where you were attacked and had been chasing him for the past couple of hours. He was last seen getting into a truck—no doubt he has help now. We need to get you two somewhere—.”

“Why don’t you just let him take me?” John asked, ignoring the appalled eyes Sherlock shot at him for saying that.

“Because plans change and we are so close of catching him, there doesn’t seem a point anymore in setting you as bait.” Mycroft clarified.

“Bait?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I see you didn’t tell him.” He shot at Sherlock.

John huffed with annoyance and shot Sherlock a look. Sherlock refused to meet his eye and instead glared at his brother. “We’ve been a little busy.” He snapped.

The car drove fast, hitting a speed bump. “You could tell your driver to slow down Mycroft.” Sherlock retorted.

Before the older man could respond, a black SUV sped down the street and crashed into the left end-side. The car spun a 180 and abruptly came to a halt by the curb.

As everything settled, John let out a breath he hadn’t realizing he was holding. From what he could tell, Mycroft and the driver were talking, something about needing backup and an incoherent response from a radio.

A few moments passed before John realized he was holding something. He looked down and saw Sherlock’s gloved hand in his own. He looked up and saw Sherlock’s mouth moving, but it took him a few more moments to hear what he was saying.

“…My hand, John. John? Let go of my hand.”

John blinked and the sudden noise invaded his senses. Car horns and people shouting were blasting outside. The SUV stayed where it was, no sign of life surrounding it.

Doctor mode kicked in and John found his hands unbuckling himself and reaching for Sherlock’s buckle.

“We should call for an ambulance—.”

“We don’t have time for that.” Mycroft claimed. He and the driver were still in their seats; distant voices ringing from their radios and phones, something about back up arrival in two minutes.

“We’ll get checked up somewhere private John.” Sherlock said reassuring.

“You could have spinal injury—.”

“John!” Sherlock snapped John’s attention back to him. “Take a breath…and relax.”

John took a deep breath and let it out, the adrenaline slowing down with it.

“Besides, you could have an injury too yet you immediately move to check anybody else before yourself.” Sherlock remarked.

John took another breath and moved his eyes to the cut on Sherlock’s forehead. “You may have a concussion. Are you feeling light-headed—?”

“I’m fine John. What about you?”

“I’m feeling fine—.”

“Your head’s bleeding—.” A movement behind him caught Sherlock’s eye and he suddenly grasped John closer to him. John’s brows furrowed and he twisted around to see what was happening but before he could get a look, a masked man grabbed him by his waist and hauled him out. Sherlock grasped desperately at his jumper, but he was still buckled which had tightened from the collision. The detective held onto John, tugging him as close as he could.

“Sherlock!” John yelled as he slipped from his grasp, their hands grazing painfully slow before they lost its contact all together and then John was gone. The last thing Sherlock saw was the look of alarm in John’s eyes relaxing to a point of acceptance and assurance that he will be all right. His yells and attempts to escape were muffled but heard, and then suddenly it all went quiet.

“John!” Sherlock squirmed from his seat, desperately trying to break free. Mycroft witnessed what was happening and called it in: “Target has been abducted! Need assistance now!”

Through the back window, Sherlock watched helplessly as the man dragged a limp John into the SUV and drove off down the street and out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter may be posted next weekend, by March 9th. I'm technically on chapter 10, but I need to do a lot of editing for it to make sense. If I get a lot of comments I'll give chapter 8 to you before then. 
> 
> ~Erin
> 
> http://sweetlittlekitty.tumblr.com/post/113287419233/sherlock-wait-theres-something-i-want-to-say


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Thank you all for your encouraging comments, I didn't respond because I've been busy editing it for you lovelies. 
> 
> Warning: language...not much else, oh, and angst of course. 
> 
> I apologize, I'm not familiar with London or how harbors work/look like there, so keep in mind that this is fiction.
> 
> There are some parallels and similar quotes to Grey's Anatomy, so if you're a fan, keep an eye out :)
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy! and comment! 
> 
> ~Erin

CHAPTER 8

 

_“In some ways betrayal is inevitable. When our bodies betray us surgery is often the key to recovery. When we betray each other? When we betray each other the path to recovery is less clear. We do whatever it takes to rebuild the trust that we lost. And then there are some wounds and some betrayals that are so deep, so profound that there’s no way to repair what was lost. And when that happens there’s nothing left to do but wait.” ~ Cristina Yang_

 

John groaned, his head throbbing with what felt like dried blood on his forehead. Keeping his eyes closed, he took in his surroundings and felt he was lying on something soft and bedded. He could hear a slight creaking in the walls and felt like he was being rocked slowly.

_On a boat…or a yacht of some sort. I wonder how far I am…_

He didn’t hear anyone in the room, so he slowly opened his eyes. The walls were off-white, the floor carpeted. The room was windowless apart from a circular one on one wall, half covered by the sea level. He sat up stiffly, and looked around. There was an empty desk and chair, and then the bed he was on. Apart from that, the room was empty. The white door on the other side was closed; John didn’t bother checking it just yet; it would probably be locked anyway.

John stood up and the room spun around him for only a moment before his vision stabilized. He walked to the window and looked out. From what he could tell, it was pitch dark out—hours could have gone by. Everything was still and…deserted. He could barely get a glimpse of the docks, but didn’t think they were moving away from them.

A voice spoke from behind him.

“John.”

He should have known. He was in a closed space; no one was there. The door hadn’t opened. He should have known who was behind him. Yet despite the knowing, John couldn’t help the hope buried deep in his mind that the door had opened and he just hadn’t heard it.

The door hadn’t opened.

John turned around and there was Sherlock. But it was just the hallucination. It wasn’t really Sherlock.

John’s anger escalated and his face turned aggressive. He balled his fists tightly and turned away.

“John.” It said again.

John ignored it and breathed deeply, keeping his eyes shut.

The allusion huffed out a laugh. “What? Are you just going to ignore me—?”

“SHUT UP!” John roared, still facing the window.

“I’m here for—.”

“Shut up!” He hissed under his breath. John raised his hand and covered his mouth. “You’re not real. The real you is alive out there, looking for me. You’re not him. You’re just…” His whisper trailed off. He stepped toward the ghost and grabbed him by his coat’s lapels, slamming him against the opposite wall. He brought his mouth an inch away from his and spoke.

“I can feel you.” John leaned up and kissed him on the lips. He leaned away just as it threatened to turn passionately.

“I can kiss you. I can talk to you, hear you, but you’re not really here. It’s just my memories making a fool of me.”

“Except from the first time.”

“What?” John’s brows creased. “What do you mean?”

“You and I—or the real me according to you, never kissed until fairly recently. You and I kissed before that actually happened, so explain that. Explain how it felt just as real.”

“No, no I’m not doing this with you. You’ll just confuse me—manipulate me. It was just my imagination; I’ve kissed people before. I can kiss you now and it feels just like it does, warm and genuine, like it is with him. Before it was just cold and longing. Christ…” John inhaled sharply. “That’s all this is, just the tumor, bargaining with my sanity. So why don’t you just leave? I’m done with all of this, I am _done_ with you.” John let go of the coat and stepped back haggardly.

“I can’t leave John.” The hallucination mumbled.

“Why?” John asked, lowering his voice.

“I—I don’t know. Earlier, I could just speak to you like…him, and leave whenever, but now I can’t leave.”

John glanced up at him. This hallucination was different. The clothes were what Sherlock was wearing today, the purple shirt caressing the skin beneath, tight and tailored to utter perfection. John’s eyes trailed to his face and he gasped.

There was a cut—the cut that had been there hours ago after the car accident.

“You’re not—no you’re not dead!”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know…if it’s really me, or just your tumor talking.”

John scoffed. “You don’t even know...you—you’re not dead. You just decided to look like him from today just to play with my mind.”

“I could just be you. You’re fears and doubts talking to yourself. All I know is that I’m here for you.”

“Don’t say that!” John gasped clenching his teeth shut afterwards. “You don’t ever get to say that! Because that means I’m going to die.” He hissed, his voice shaking on the last word.

“Last time I was supposed to but then you—him—Sherlock, —he, he came back for me, and…brought me back to life. But now…you’re here to what…tell me that I’m going to die? Again? Great. Perfect. Like I didn’t already fucking know!” He yelled, his tone harshly mordacious.

“Sarcasm doesn’t work for you.” Sherlock remarked.

John just scoffed and turned away.

“You think you’re going to die?” Sherlock pointed out.

John sighed softly and dropped his shoulders, the tension easing away. “I…I can’t die, not now—not after…everything. I’m not going to die. Sherlock will come. He and Mycroft…they have a plan.”

“You’re really going to put your life in his hands.”

“Yes.” John replied quickly. “I trust him. Despite what he has done, I still bloody trust him, with my life. He’s going to find me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“For God’s Sake Mycroft! How could you lose him? You had men following us but failed to stop them!”

“Sherlock calm down!”

“I am calm!” Sherlock snapped. He was sitting in an ambulance, still at the scene. It had been only an hour since John was taken, and the SUV vanished from sight. Mycroft’s men were going over CCTV cameras for any sightings.

A paramedic was bandaging the cut on his forehead while his brother fussed over him like their mother. Nobody was critically injured in the accident; which was something Mycroft couldn’t stop gratifying over.

“You’re lucky you weren’t killed or critically injured in the accident—.”

“Just shut up Mycroft.”

Just then, Sherlock’s phone rang.

“Hello?” He snapped.

“Sherlock, what the hell happened?” Harry screeched over the phone.

“Harry, how on earth did you know?”

“Where’s John?” She demanded.

“He’s—.”

“It’s all over the news. A news chopper flying by filmed the accident and saw John being taken. Where the hell did he go!”

“Harry…” Sherlock began calmly. “John was kidnapped. Now don’t worry, I’ll find him.”

“Jesus! Is he all right, is he hurt?”

“Just shaken up. Did he—did he tell you about…” He hesitated. “About the tumor…coming back?”

Harry inhaled sharply. “No he didn’t. Fucking hell—.”

“Harry stay at home. I’ll find him and let you know afterwards.”

Harry let out a shaky breath and then spoke. “Please…” She hesitated, looking for the right words. “Promise me you’ll make sure he doesn’t get hurt.”

“I promise.” Sherlock assured her and then hung up. Mycroft eyed his brother suspiciously. In his whole life growing up with his younger brother, he had never heard him promise something so…unselfishly.

A young man stepped to the bumper of the ambulance, interrupting Mycroft’s thoughts. “Sir we have a sighting.”

Sherlock pushed aside the paramedic and rushed forward. The man turned the laptop to the Holmes brothers and they viewed security footage with a clear view of the SUV that took John. It appeared they were heading towards a deserted harbor.

Another voice spoke behind the man. “Sir, we have another sighting from CCTV.”

Mycroft ushered her forward and viewed the footage. After a moment, he raised his eyebrows and turned to Sherlock. “It appears Moran is leading a trail purposely for you to follow him.”

“Well then if you’ll excuse me—.”

“You’re not going alone—.”

“Yes I am. It started with Moriarty and me. I finish this. You can stay close behind, but don’t interfere. I don’t want Moran to be startled and go straight to hurting John.”

Mycroft looked hesitant but after a brief moment, he nodded.

Sherlock stepped out of the bus and looked back. “Send me the footage. Once I’ve located the exact structure that holds John, I’ll let you know.”

Mycroft nodded. “There are the supplies you needed…in the trunk. And I had the decency to retrieve John’s gun, in case you need it.”

Sherlock nodded—the closest appreciation Mycroft was going to get from him—and with that, he was off, the sun just about setting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hallucination was still there, by the door, looking directly at John. It was talking, but John blocked it out what felt like hours ago. He stayed by the window, looking out for any sign of life on the docks. He could have sworn he saw a flurry of long legs and a flaying coat, but after a couple more minutes, everything remained still.

Moran hadn’t bothered showing up yet. He hadn’t even got a glimpse of him. He only knew there were at least two men who had kidnapped him but there could be more surrounding the boat.

“…I’ve always had an affinity to bees. Have I ever told you that? Probably, but you just hadn’t been listening. I’m still here, by the way, if you want to contribute to this fascinating conversation. You could be stuck in here for days, but at least I’m here for you. Unlike the real Sherlock. He wasn’t. He’s never there for you. He leaves you by your bedside on countless occasions, literally even, and then expects you to stay by his. I’m _here for you_.”

The last few words were high-pitched and maliciously familiar. John spun around and the hallucination altered to none other than Jim Moriarty. He was there for only a second, then John blinked and Sherlock was back.

Irritation from the constant talking and mental exhaustion snapped in John, and he furiously grabbed the desk chair and flung it at the hallucination.

“Shut up! Shut up and GO AWAY!” He roared, kicking the desk in fury.

Sherlock gave him a long look of impassiveness, and then John blinked again and he was gone.

John breathed a sigh of relief, but much to his annoyance, couldn’t help but feel even lonelier than ever in the remaining silence.

A sudden explosion from the back of the boat sent John to the floor. He groaned as he lied there for a moment. The explosion was strong enough to cause miniature leaks throughout the boat. The boat trembled and the lights flickered dimly. Fortunately, the damage wasn’t strong enough to sink the boat.

He stood up shakily and looked at the door. It had opened from the explosion; apparently it hadn’t been locked at all.

John took a step but stopped when a figure peered through the door. The man pushed it opened and walked in. John’s shoulders relaxed with defeat and huffed out in annoyance.

“For God’s Sake I’m going to punch you in the face if you don’t just leave me alone!”

Sherlock stared at John. With a mere glance of the room and back at John, Sherlock nodded once in understanding. His eyes were full of sympathy, but John saw it as pity and stepped towards the detective, his face reddening with anger and his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

“I swear, leave now or I’m going to hit you until you do.”

Sherlock spoke, careful with his words. “John,” He began softly. “It’s really me now. I’m Sherlock and I’m here for you. We need to leave before—.”

John’s eyes remained staring and for a moment Sherlock believed he would stand down. But fury rose deep in John’s blue eyes and the next moment Sherlock found himself on the ground with John on top of him.

John raised his hand and punched Sherlock across the jaw. He did it again and then again. Blood splattered from the head wound, a bandage flying off that John didn’t notice before. Sherlock’s nose was beginning to bleed too; John’s fists were bruising more now and the skin was beginning to break and bleed as well. John wrapped his hands around his neck and began to squeeze. He was muttering as he constricted Sherlock’s throat, something along the lines of “just leave me alone” and “you’re not here for me.”

The life in Sherlock’s eyes was draining as he choked; tears were falling on his face, streaming from John’s eyes. The man’s eyes connected with Sherlock’s and abruptly his body froze, his grip loosening as he roughly shifted off the body. Sherlock coughed roughly and scooted away.

John stood up and stumbled away towards the window. He stopped halfway, his body shaking and shuddering. Sherlock hoped he had realized he wasn’t a hallucination, but then John spoke and that hope drowned.

“I couldn’t do it.” He whispered to himself. “I couldn’t make you leave, y-you look just like him. It—.” John shut his eyes tight, clenching his fists. “It felt like _I_ was killing him. So why can’t you just leave yourself?” John asked.

Sherlock stepped forward, raising his hands to gently take hold of John. John stepped back suddenly, his eyes widening with fear.

“Don’t touch me!” He yelled.

Sherlock continued to step closer, and within reach, he grabbed John’s arms and tried to bring him closer, desperate to prove that he was real. John squirmed in his grasp and twisted away. He pushed Sherlock roughly back, and stumbled from the loss of support. He lost his footing and twisted his ankle, falling sideways, and hitting his head on the desk. He was knocked out cold.

“John!”

Sherlock rushed forward to his friend’s side. He twisted him around and cradled him in his arms to study the wound. The cut from the accident had clotted, but another cut had been afflicted above it, bleeding just slightly. Sherlock felt for a pulse on John’s neck and found one steady.

_He’s only unconscious. He’s still alive…”_

Sherlock stood up and wrapped an arm around his lover’s waist. He grabbed his arm and pulled it over his shoulder. Once stable, Sherlock limped to the door and peered out into the hall. They were on the lowest level; water was streaming in from the far end; Sherlock turned and headed down the opposite way. He turned a corner and found a stairway leading to the second floor, presumably below the outside deck.

He couldn’t go the way he came. When he arrived onto the yacht, Moran was waiting for him at the bow. He was clearly military. He stood confidently and arrogantly. A gleam of murderous rage sparked in his eyes. He had a gun in hand but there was no sign of John.

“Well, well, well, we finally meet.” Moran had said.

“Let’s cut to the chase shall we.” Sherlock had responded coldly.

“Why you’re sure in a hurry.”

“You can say that.”

“Bet you’re wondering where he is?”

“Is it obvious?”

“Well why else would you be here?”

“Where is he?”

“Below deck. Go on, go get him.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, of course you may hit an obstacle…I have a sniper hiding out somewhere, awaiting my orders. And you have to get to him before he does, then maybe we can talk. Besides, the game hasn’t ended yet.” He had said, grinning maliciously.

Before Sherlock could have responded, Moran had raised the gun and fired aimlessly towards Sherlock. Sherlock ducked and headed towards the closest door. A sudden jolt of the boat sent Sherlock falling down the stairs, bullets flying close behind; a fiery explosion suddenly engulfed the end of the boat (someone else must have set off a bomb).

Sherlock landed on his front in a wide hallway. The bullets had subdued, but he could feel the boat creak and tremble due to the explosion. He stood up, but sudden pain shot through his right side; a bullet must have hit him!

Sherlock pulled his coat and jacket to the side. His shirt was stained; blood was seeping through slowly, but he could tell it wasn’t actually his, just the fake patches beneath, yet he could feel bruised and broken skin rubbing against the vest.

_The bulletproof vest must have worked._

With a grunt, Sherlock had stiffly stood up and composed himself. It hadn’t taken long to find John—it was almost too easy.

Back to the present, John groaned and shifted in Sherlock’s hold.

“John?” Sherlock stopped in his tracks and gently leaned him against the wall in the hallway and shook the army doctor’s shoulders.

The man mumbled incoherently. His eyes fluttered open and he locked them with Sherlock’s piercing gaze.

“Oh…” He sighed. “You’re never going to leave me.” He stated more than suggested or asked, and a shiver of uncertainty ran through Sherlock’s body.

“Never.” The detective decided to say.

John simply sighed with defeat, his head lolling to the side.

“John stay awake. Stay awake for a while longer. You may have a concussion.”

“All right—all right.” He mumbled. John slumped against the wall, trying to gain focus of his surroundings.

“Think. I need to think, there must be somewhere…” Sherlock mumbled, looking around. The hallway was wide with doors leading to various rooms, and led straight on until it turned a corner. Windows lied on one side, and doors on the other. Some doors led to downstairs but none lead up to the deck. A dark red caught John’s eye, drawing it to Sherlock’s side as the detective scanned the hallway for any exits.

“You’re bleeding.” John stated dumbly.

“Don’t worry about it.” Sherlock said, his focus attentive to the hallway.

John stepped forward and reached for Sherlock’s side whilst the man paced. Just as his hand grazed the blood, he gasped, withdrawing his hand now stained with blood.

“John?” Sherlock paused in his pacing and stepped toward his blogger.

John’s eyes were wide with shock and self-loathing. “Oh my God what have I done?” He raised his hand and trailed his fingers along Sherlock’s bruised forehead and dried blood that lined the small breaks of skin.

“Oh my God.” He choked, tears stinging his eyes.

“John it’s alright—.”

“No it’s not! I can’t believe I did that!” John turned on his heel and began stalking away, wiping his eyes.

“John wait—.”

“No I can’t see you like this. I can’t be with you anymore—.”

A red dot surfaced on John’s back. Sherlock whirled around but couldn’t identify the source. “John…”

John twirled around and began pacing. “Is there a way out? I don’t—I can’t be here with you, oh my God, Sherlock I am so so sorry.”

“John, don’t move.”

“I—.”

The next moment happened in slow motion. Sherlock turned to John and tackled him to the floor just as a bullet whizzed by his shoulder. The detective fell on top of his blogger, eyes blown wide.

“Sherlock what—.”

“John, get up with me and then run! Do not look back!”

“Alright—.”

“Now!”

The pair stumbled up and took off down the hall. Bullets were shot at various places, hitting the walls beside them and close at their feet. Sherlock stayed in pace with John, though slightly behind him. They reached the corner and turned just as one last bullet was shot, and John fell to the floor, yelping in surprise.

“Ah—!”

“John!”

“It-it’s okay it’s just…ugh, above the knee. I think it’s just a graze. I can walk, I can—.” John’s face tightened with pain. Sherlock’s hands traveled to his thigh; blood was just barely seeping through the man’s jeans.

“You’re sure you can walk?”

“Yes.” He breathed. “Just help me up.”

Sherlock wrapped an arm around his lover’s waist and pulled him up. John groaned but kept walking. They limped down the hall, the bullets having already subsided.

“What’s was all that about?” John asked, twitching with pain.

“Moran’s sniper. Moran told me he’s going to be teasing us first and then…”

“And then?”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know.”

The boat creaked and trembled heavily. The water leaking in the level below them was still only minimal, however wherever the explosion occurred, there would be severe damage. Suddenly, an intercom interfered, causing them to stop in their tracks.

“Mr. Holmes. Meet me up on deck in half an hour. Come alone.”

John and Sherlock exchanged looks.

“What do we do?” John asked slowly, leaning into Sherlock’s hold.

Sherlock remained silent, staring into John’s eyes. His brows were creased, indication that he was deep in thought.

“Well…” John said hesitantly and looked around. “We can’t just stand here in plain sight.” He looked back at his lover. “Sherlock.”

The detective remained silent, his gaze glancing down the rest of the hallway ahead of them, and then to the ground. “Sherlock, look at me.” John asserted.

Sherlock looked up. “Do you trust me?”

John’s face tightened and hesitated. “Tell me what you’re idea is, and we’ll see.”

“We don’t have time. I need you…to trust me.” Sherlock exclaimed, staring firmly at John. John stared back

John exhaled. “All right.”

Sherlock nodded. “You need to run back the way we came.”

“What? Why? The water—.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice dropped to a whisper. “As soon as we move, the sniper at the end of this hall near the stairs will shoot. I need you to run.”

“Wh-what about you? You’ll get shot.”

A red dot suddenly surfaced on John’s neck. Sherlock noticed of course, but John didn’t. The detective leaned down and kissed John on the lips, completely sinful and affectionate. John was caught off guard and attempted to break it, however Sherlock’s arm was wrapped around his waist, supporting his stance and keeping him forward.

John kissed him back, but just for a moment before twisting his neck and breaking their contact.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. “Trust me.”

Sighing, John gave a curt nod, avoiding Sherlock’s eye.

Sherlock dropped his hands from John’s waist and shoved him roughly, slamming his body to a door. He reached into his own waistband and pulled out John’s gun and fired, just as another shot rang through the hall. John laid on the ground, covering his head, eyes wide as he saw Sherlock collapse. The minute he hit the ground, a red dot emerged on the white wall and remained still.

John rushed to Sherlock’s side and knelt down heavily on his uninjured leg. “Sherlock!”

“John—.” The detective coughed harshly. Blood was seeping through his shirt below his left pectoral.

“Sher—oh my…I-I need to get you out of here.” John pressed his hands to the wound in attempt to stop the bleeding. Sherlock brushed John’s hands away.

“No John you need to leave. I can walk, I’ll be up in a minute—.”

“What no, you need to be still first, let me—.”

“John, it’s okay I’m fine—.”

“Stop saying you’re fine. You. Are not. Fine. You got shot—.” John’s voice trembled, but he sucked in a deep breath and continued, his voice resembling his captain character.

“I don’t think there is an exit wound, but you won’t be able to walk. Let me carry you…”

Panic flashed in Sherlock’s eyes. “John, it’s a vest—a bullet—.”

“Hush Sherlock. I’m not leaving.”

“John!” The detective groaned.

“Sherlock shut up. I’m not leaving you.” John looked into Sherlock’s eyes. They were glistening.

“God it hurts.” Sherlock groaned.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Sherlock.”

“I think I’m going to pass out. You need to leave, now. Find Moran. Mycroft will be here soon. You need to go. I’ll be right behind—.”

“No, stay awake. Stay awake Sherlock. Please—.” John’s voice trembled again. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered close and then opened again. John cupped his jaw and faced it towards him. His voice was stabilizing as he progressed.

“Please don’t die.” He said sternly. “I love you Sherlock. I love you and we’re—.” His voice trembled, a lump growing in his throat. “We’re supposed to be together. I can’t live without you, I tried remember, please don’t die Sherlock.” He began to ramble, pressing his hands back onto Sherlock’s wounds.

Sherlock blinked at the confession and stared up at John. He twisted away from John, whose hands went back to his wound, taking Sherlock’s scarf from his neck and pressing down. Sherlock grasped John’s wrist and pushed it off his wound. The minute John’s hands left his chest, he stilled, his eyes starring vacant on the wall. The red dot vanished and footsteps were heard going up the stairs then out of earshot.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock inhaled deeply. “John.” He spoke stronger, as if not in any pain, and lifted his head to look at the stairs. He dropped his head and looked at his lover. “The sniper’s gone. Okay, go ahead and drag me into that room.”

“What—.”

“Just do it!”

Sniffling and utterly confused, John shakily stood up, resting more weight on his uninjured leg and then leaned down. He pulled Sherlock by the shoulders and led them into a vacant room. He dragged Sherlock in and then lifted him up onto the cot. Turning around, John shut the door, after peering at the hallway and noting that it was empty.

John turned around only the find Sherlock stiffly sitting up and in the middle of discarding his coat and jacket.

“What do you think you’re—no Sherlock, lay back down. You’re in shock, you need—.”

Sherlock ignored him and pulled his shirt apart, revealing a damaged bulletproof vest.

John gaped on the detective, bewilderment written on his face, then apprehension, and then a combination of relief and resentment.

“Oh my God!” John stepped away and slouched into a desk chair. He placed his head between his knees and breathed deeply. “You—.”

“John.”

“Jesus! Sh-Sherlock y-you fucking bastard!” He wanted to punch him, but after what he did earlier, he couldn’t bring himself to raise his hand, so instead he kept his fists clenched by his side. John limped towards the detective and placed his hands on his shoulders, resting his forehead on top of the mop of curly hair.

“Christ Sherlock—.” John uttered under his breath. “Don’t ever do that again, do you hear me?”

Sherlock raised his hand and held John’s arm gently, squeezing it as if to assure his lover that he is okay. “I hear you.” John leaned back, shifting his weight onto his uninjured leg. He raised a hand to the visibly skin and delicately grazed the reddening bruise overlaying the detective’s chest. He began to shake, his breathing hitching and becoming shallow. He couldn’t keep himself upright, and crumpled to the floor onto his knees. He leaned forward, resting his head in Sherlock’s lap, clutching the detective wherever he could as the shuddering increased. All Sherlock could do was hold his lover tight and rub soothing circles in his back. And so he did.

“You’re angry.” Sherlock stated.

John sniffled and leaned back so he could look up at the other man. “Damn right I’m angry. And—.” John clenched his mouth, his lips trembling. “So fucking relived Sherlock, Jesus, I thought you were actually going to die—.” He inhaled deeply, and followed it with a shaky exhale. He remained kneeling but withdrawn and silent, breathing deeply in order to calm himself down.

Sherlock raised a hand and cupped John’s jaw, gently caressing it. “I’m sorry.”

John nodded slightly. “Are you still in any pain? Or was that just for show?” He mumbled.

Sherlock let his hand drop. “It hurt, but yes, part of it was for show.”

John nodded. “Why?” He whispered.

“Because Moran is playing a game with us. He and his sniper are out there, shooting at us, but not intending to kill us, yet. He just wants to tease with us, injure us until we’re either dead or too weak to fight back.”

John nodded again. “So what’s the plan?” He asked as he stood up and limped to the desk chair.

Sherlock took the useless vest off and began re-buttoning his shirt. “We need to get off this ship. And if we kill Moran in order to do so, then we will. But…right now, you need medical attention—.”

John shot his head up, bewildered. ‘I’m fine. I wasn’t the one who got shot—.”

Sherlock glared at him. “You are not fine.” He snapped. “When we get back to shore, I am taking you to the hospital and you are having the surgery.” Sherlock ordered sternly.

John gapped at him. “You don’t have to order it! I’ve scheduled it for next week—.”

“That’s not soon enough!” Sherlock snapped, his eyes burning with— _oh my, he’s worried and…scared, why would he be…_

It only took a moment for John to understand. “You could tell, couldn’t you? You walked in and found me tense and infuriated, the furniture thrown around, and you knew…you knew that I had had another hallucination.”

“Of course I knew. It was obvious—.”

“But why now? Why can’t I just wait until the day it’s actually scheduled for?”

“Because it’s—it’s—.” Sherlock looked away, and then after another moment, John realized why.

“It’s distracting to you.” He stated flatly.

Sherlock refused to look at him. He didn’t want it to be distracting, but it was. But not for the reason John was about to state.

“It’s—I, I’m getting in you’re way. You would’ve found Moran if this hadn’t happened to me. If you hadn’t found out and just stayed away, continued tracking Moran, we wouldn’t be here if I—.”

“That’s not it.” Sherlock interrupted with another snap. “I was tracking Moran back to London. And then I caught sight of you and…it was all telling. It was obvious that you were struggling and sick with something. The medical tests just confirmed it.”

“Then why—.”

“It’s distracting because I can’t think! Instead I worry!” Sherlock confessed. “Constantly, all the time! You see an illusion of me, and it’s so unbelievably convincing to you that you follow it, talk to it. I can’t help to think that you will follow it one day, thinking it’s me, and run into a trap. And I might not notice in time.”

John creased his forehead. “Why wouldn’t you notice?”

Sherlock sighed and looked at his lover. “The drugs—.”

“Don’t you dare think about going back to them! Just talk to _me_! Is that it? Because of this tumor happening, you can’t talk to me anymore?”

Sherlock lost it.                 

“It’s not the tumor, it’s you. You HAPPENED TO ME!”

John flinched at the sudden rise in Sherlock’s voice and stepped back, clenching his jaw. It was familiar, it all too much. He covered his mouth; afraid that words he didn’t mean would slip out.

Sherlock noticed the flinch and observed the army doctor in a deafening silence, though avoiding the man’s eye. A minute into the stillness, John finally spoke, his voice low and trembling no matter how hard he tried to stabilize it.

“You think this is easier for me? That it’s harder on you because you have to watch with no control over the situation? You pity me even though _I’m the one_ with this nightmare in my head. _I’m the one_ who’s afraid of losing sight of you because once I do, God forbid a hallucination appears and I make a fool of myself.” John inhaled sharply, clenching his jaw tightly.

“I can’t control it.” He whispered hoarsely. “They just happen. There’s no pattern for when they appear and for how long. I went for four days without a single one.” He managed to say that much before his voice cracked and he had to take a deep breath to calm himself down.

Sherlock pondered for a moment. “Guess we should have stayed in bed then.” He whispered as his eyes focused on the carpet.

A weak laugh escaped John, but didn’t last long. He crossed his arms and leaned against the desk, looking at Sherlock. “I can’t lose myself Sherlock. And I most definitely cannot lose you. I don’t want your pity…just your company. Just be here. For me, Sherlock, please, I—I can’t lose you. He paused, his voice wavering just a fraction. “It bothers you, it bothers me too.” He mumbled, and then continued, raising his voice to a normal level. “I meant what I said earlier, when I thought you were dying. I…I meant it. Just in case you…if you doubted it.”

Sherlock tensed, and turned around, focusing on the wall. “I don’t pity you. Not at all. But how can you…love me?” He mumbled aberrantly quiet that John barely heard him.

He did doubt it; he had been becoming skeptical of their entire relationship together since, well…he couldn’t pinpoint when exactly. But for some reason, he couldn’t help that feeling that sinking feeling, that what if, John was just hoping Sherlock would be just like the allusion he had talked to for months before he came back from the dead—like the man he used to be. And that sooner or later, John would realize he’s not like the hallucination, but just normal—perfectly capable of feeling—no matter how inconsiderately badly he wanted not to feel it at all. It was overwhelming to Sherlock, to wish he didn’t feel—dare he say love? —to John, but at the same time, in that very moment, he wanted everything in the world to say how he felt out loud. What he felt for John was incredibly so that it felt almost impossible to admit it to the man in front of him; hell he could barely think about it in his own mind!

A shiver ran down John’s back. “How can I—Sherlock, I love you and I always will. I’ve loved you for… _years_. How can you doubt me?”

Sherlock whipped around, facing John. “You’re seriously asking that? I don’t doubt _you;_ I told you that I was sure when we first got together, but now I…I doubt your feelings for how…real they may be.” He clenched his jaw, pausing for a moment.

“I think,” He continued slowly. “That you don’t love _me,_ but who I was before, like the hallucina—.”

“No! No…Sherlock, don’t compare yourself to it! It nearly destroyed me, seeing an apparition of you, walking beside me, talking and responding to me, kissing me—.” John exhaled sharply. “It almost killed me. It would’ve if I hadn’t fought it. It fooled me in the beginning, it has manipulated me but not like the way you have. It was cruel in the beginning. And now…it’s ambiguous; it appears whenever it wants, and medically, it’s just a piece of my memories warped into something that’s not…real. It claims it’s here for me, but I know truly that you’re here for me. You’re the real Sherlock, you’re the one I love.”

“How do you know?” Sherlock demanded.

John paused. “Because…” He started, his voice stabilizing greatly as he pressed on. “You saved me. Every time it’s appeared since you’ve been back, you’re there, beside me, reassuring me that it’s not real. And that you’re the real Sherlock. You’re there for me.”

He dropped his voice to a whisper and looked down. “You’re here for me.” John raised his head and saw that Sherlock was just staring at the ground, his eyes unfocused but his brows creased, showing that he was thinking.

John sighed and stepped forward, raising a hand and lifting Sherlock’s chin so they could look at each other properly. “Talk to me Sherlock…please.” He whispered.

Sherlock’s head had been raised, but his eyes were casted downwards. He inhaled deeply before he spoke. “The more available you get, the more I pull away.”

John furrowed his brows in pure confusion but simply hummed for Sherlock to continue at his own pace.

Sherlock stepped back until they were no longer touching; John didn’t think too much into it, Sherlock just wanted a bit of space for this overly sentimental talk.

Reluctantly looking up a John, Sherlock continued. “I’m no hero John. You say things like ‘saving you’ and ‘being there for you’ but I’m really not, I-I left you and when I came back, eventually you forgave me. I’ve realized that you’ve changed me. It’s very likely I’ll leave again—not as serious as that, but I’ll go off on my own during a case no doubt. I’m still the consulting detective, I’m still me…still arrogant, rude, and an utterly annoying dickhead…”

John let out a soft chuckle, but allowed his lover to continue.

“But you…have changed me. At least in some way. Before I…left, I was more of a machine. But now, you’ve humanized…” Sherlock’s brows creased further, looking down and thinking of a better word than that.

“Romanticized you?” John suggested with a lighter tone to his voice.

Sherlock scoffed softly and finally looked up into John’s eyes. “You’re the romantic, not me. But you have changed me; you make me feel so much, it’s overwhelming. It’s so much than I ever would have thought I could ever feel. And not only that, but I feel like I should protect you more now, that I should protect _us.”_

“You’re like my knight in shinning armor.” John teased, resting his forehead lightly onto his lover’s.

Sherlock scoffed again, and then sighed, “Like I said, you’re the romantic.”

John grinned softly and then stepped back, his gaze hardening. “Seriously though, it was like…I was drowning. After the war I came back and had nothing and then I met you, and then you left and,” He exhaled deeply, as if a weight had been tremendously lifted from his shoulders in just admitting what he was about to say.

“I thought this tumor was going to drown me again, and succeed. But you came back and…it was like coming up for fresh air. You saved me.” John said as he stared into Sherlock’s deep eyes.

Sherlock bit his lip, unsure how to respond. “So you…I’m having trouble…” He looked utterly lost, after this massive wave of sentiment had washed over him and was all because of _him_ , he didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t need to doubt me.” John confirmed. “What I feel for you is real, and I know…I know what you feel is real to.”

Sherlock sighed. “It’s all so…tremendously overwhelming. I don’t see the point in romanticizing it all.”

John laughed softly and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “You don’t have to. That won’t make it less true though.”

Sherlock tightened their embrace and rested his chin on top of John’s hair. “I—.”

“You don’t have to say it now. I know Sherlock.” John murmured.

Sherlock closed his mouth and tightened his arms around John’s shoulders.

“Um, Sherlock…” John broke the comfortable silence. “Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, get off of this sinking ship?” The water was low at their ankles, rising fortunately at a slow rate.

Sherlock tensed just a fraction but pulled a way before John could consider it. “I doubt it will. The explosion was at the stern, not the hull. Any damage would just be cracks, for now at least.” He leaned forward again and pressed his lips to John’s, capturing a fierce kiss. It deepened as John kissed him back, cupping the detective’s jaw with one hand, the other resting on his hip and bringing him as close as possible.

Sherlock trailed his hands down to John’s hips and clutched him to keep him still. The kiss slowed down to lingering touches; Sherlock leaned back far enough to still feel John’s breath against his own swollen lips.

“You trust me.” Sherlock stated.

“Yes.” John replied boldly.

“I’m sorry.”

John creased his eyebrows. “For what—?” He exhaled against Sherlock’s lips, but was interrupted by a click and then felt his wrist tightened to—.

He looked down and stared at the handcuffs, attaching him to the desk chair. His affection and arousal were drowned by sudden irritation and disbelief.

Trying to remain calm, he breathed deeply through his nose and looked up at Sherlock. The detective revealed no emotion, but John knew better that he was hiding everything he felt beneath that mechanical façade.

“Un-cuff me Sherlock.” He demanded as calmly as he could.

Sherlock remained silent and placed John’s gun on the desk in easy reach.

“That’s for if anyone comes through the door before I come back. I shouldn’t be long…” Sherlock said and headed towards the door only to pause when John called out his name. He didn’t turn around though, but waited for John to say whatever he wanted to say.

“You better have an explanation for this. And expect a punch to the face when you come back.” John swore.

Sherlock didn’t look at him, but nodded curtly before leaving the room and closing the door behind him, leaving John alone and pissed off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have midterms next week, so next chapter will come by March 16th. I'm editing chapter 9 now, and the whole thing will be about 12-15 total. anyways, please comment!


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, early for you lovelies :)
> 
> WARNING: Descriptions of Violence  
> when I finish this work, I will probably change the archive warning, but for now it's written here.  
> (Also, a whole of angst in the next coming chapters)
> 
> there's a video at the end notes with a description so keep an eye for that
> 
> other than that, Please comment, it makes my day and encourages me to keep writing.  
> ~Erin

CHAPTER 9 

 

_“The human life is made up of choices. Yes or no. In or out. Up or down. And then, there are the choices that matter. To love or hate. To be a hero or to be a coward. To fight or to give in. To live or to die. Live or die. That’s the important choice. And it’s not always in our hands.” ~ Derek Shepherd_

 

At least Sherlock had the decency to cuff his right hand rather than his left, in case he did need to shoot someone. John tugged against the handcuffs for a good five minutes—or at least that’s how long it felt—but they didn’t budge. It was worth a try though. The desk chair was apparently too heavy to drag with him, realizing this after several attempts of arranging it in order to get it through the door.

Sighing with annoyance, John slumped in the chair, and began to think. Suddenly, the door opened, and Sherlock walked in with a hesitant stride, keeping the door opened behind him. John looked up and raised his eyebrows, expectantly.

Sherlock stayed by the door, eyeing John but remaining silent. A sudden thought occurred to John and he sighed with defeat. Sherlock stepped closer to John, but out of arms reach.

“I’m not a hallucination.” He claimed calmly. John slowly looked up and his face began to relax.

“You’re not.” He realized. His posture relaxed further and he steadied his gaze at Sherlock. “Why’d you come back?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and then carefully answered. “From what has happened recently, it was completely logical to assume an illusion of me would appear once I left you alone. You’ve had about four episodes today, after four days without a single one. Taking precautions, I handcuffed you so you wouldn’t follow it, in case you would be convinced enough that it was really me.”

John nodded slowly. “And the fact that it wouldn’t have a key would be telling enough…and you opened the door just now. It can’t. Obviously.” He muttered the last word and bit his lip. “Are you still going to leave me here?”

“For now.”

John scoffed gently. “Why?” He asked calmly.

“There’s something I need to do, and you’re not going to like it.”

“Why can’t you just tell me and let me decide that for myself?”

“Because I need to do this alone.”

John stilled, and gaped for a moment.

“What happened to being in this together? Weren’t you listening to me this morning when I was getting patched up? I said—.”

“I know what you said. But right now I _need_ to do this. We don’t have time to exchange plans and I can’t tell you what’s going to happen as a result because I don’t even know!”

John stared at Sherlock, stunned by the sudden honesty. Inhaling sharply, John spoke as calmly as he could. “Uncuff me.”

“No.”

“Uncuff me Sherlock.”

“No.”

“Sherlock!”

“No!”

“Then why did you come back?

Sherlock stared at John, tense and trying to avoid John’s eye. He was hiding something, or…

John lost his patience. “I swear Sherlock I will make your life miserable if you don’t let me come along. If you truly love me, then let me go!”

“Or what?” Sherlock provoked.

John stilled, clenching his jaw. He breathed deeply through his nose and continued staring at Sherlock. The detective stared back, brows raised slightly to imply the provocation. Finally, John spoke, his voice low and as calm as he could manage.

“I don’t mean to put up any conditions, but if you love me, Sherlock, you would see that—.”

Sherlock bit his lip, hesitantly, and then he snapped. “I don’t.”

John froze and gaped at the detective. After a moment of silence, he laughed.

“Alright I know where this is going. You’re just trying to disengage yourself from any emotions or sentiment so you could win. That’s it, that’s why. But Sherlock, you need to stopping lying to yourself and just admit that someone out there—or perhaps right in front of you—loves you with all his heart! How can _you_ not see that?”

Sherlock eyed John, his expression blanketing with a grim impassiveness. “It was all a lie. I don’t love you and never can, nor will I bother. You’re just a convenience, an adrenaline junkie who’s so pathetically blinded by sentiment that it will sooner or later be the thing that kills you. Like I said before, sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side and I don’t plan on losing. You’re staying here.”

John’s face fell with utter bewilderment and hurt. Sherlock stared back, and for a just a moment John could have sworn he saw hurt in Sherlock as well. But it was gone, replaced by a dreadful coldness that sent shivers down John’s spine.

“I still don’t believe you.” He rasped, although the confidence in his denial was beginning to drain. “I mean seriously, why did you even bother kissing me and declaring ‘you’re in this’? Not ten minutes ago we talked about this, or at least I thought we had it figured it out, and you left without a doubt about us. What changed your mind?”

“John, just drop it. I don’t love you, end of story.”

“No it’s not! I love you; I want to be with you. Y-you can’t just ‘play’ with me and then change your mind without an explanation.”

“Watch me.”

John gasped, taken aback by the detective’s cold, distant tone.

Sherlock sighed, irritated, and continued. “Believe what you want. You’re staying here.”

“I’ll find a way out.”

“You do and you’ll just make a fool of yourself. You’re a fool John, an idiot for not seeing the facts.”

John glared at him. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but if you do this, it won’t get you far. You’re a genius yet you’re quite thick when it comes to sentiment. All right then. You want to claim those lies you spit out as the truth, fine. When we get out of this, we are _done_.” He spat out, his voice terrifyingly firm and cold, unlike its usual tone. He looked away, only to miss a sudden wave crash in Sherlock’s eyes, a wave of hurt and regret up roaring into a rainstorm. The detective blinked slowly and it was gone, back to the calmness of an eye of the said storm.

John slumped further into his seat, his hand hovering heavily in the air against the cuff. “Just go…” He whispered, still looking away from the detective.

“John…”

The army doctor stood up suddenly and charged at Sherlock, splashing water in his wake, but only to be painfully halted by his cuffed hand. He glared at Sherlock. “If you don’t care for me at all, then uncuff me and let me go. It won’t matter if I get myself killed. It seems you don’t have any use of me anyway.” He looked down, breathing deeply to control his frustration.

The detective looked upon the other man, fondness swelling deep in his chest. He had hoped John would be resistant to the lies he was about to tell, but never in his life had he been so wrong, and so longing to take it all back. It was worse, much worse than he had expected. But he couldn’t go back now. What he meant to say for now was said, and now he just had to keep going, using John’s broken heart against Moran. He knew it was cruel to lie, to withdraw his declaration of his love for John, but he also knew that it was the best way to keep John safe. At least this way, he could pretend it was all true, and that he didn’t feel anything for John Watson, and maybe it’d be enough to preserve his own heart.

Of course, he hadn’t been counting on John’s reaction or how badly it would sting. But it was vital that John not see it, whatever was to happen, and lying to him may just be enough to keep him from seeing it. So maybe right this second he could do something…to keep John broken-hearted but hopeful at the same time, so in the end, it would work out.

Holding his desperate desire to smother John with his love, Sherlock rested his palm on the desk for several seconds, and then turned on his heal and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Closing the door behind him, Sherlock stopped in his tracks and glared at Sebastian Moran.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?”

“We both know it’s a lie.” Sherlock retorted.

Moran shrugged “Your friend doesn’t. Now whether or not he comes after you, he’ll still have this conversation in the back of his head to question his actions; he’ll start to think if you’re worth it, if you’re worth his life. He may just conclude he doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“He means the world to me.” Sherlock declared confidently.

Moran nodded slightly. “We’ll see about that. Now up to the bow. That’s where this will end.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John fumed in his seat, but the second the door closed shut, he let out a shaky sob—tearless, yet painful, as if a stabbing had taken place over his heart. He felt sick, the lies churning in his stomach, and so he leaned forward, placing his head as low as he could. He couldn’t bend far because one hand was locked in place around the frame of the chair.

Taking in deep, shuddering breaths, John still wasn’t able to relax. He spent minutes repeating the same thought, as if trying to convince himself that this was just a nightmare, or even better if it was just a lie. Sure, it felt sickening to think Sherlock would lie to him after all this time, but a tremendous relief too if he really did love John back. It seemed too obvious; from the beginning of their relationship almost two weeks ago it seemed incredibly clear to John that Sherlock had feelings for him. It most certainly did not feel like a test, and recalling on their moments, John began feeling confident that all this was just a deploy; an insane idea Sherlock came up last minute to try and beat Moran. It was hurtful, but John hoped Sherlock had it under control.

However, doubt still lingered. Sherlock had looked and sounded so convincing; the coldness in his eyes had been fresh and so comparable to the ones he had seen directed to others, primarily imbeciles, according to Sherlock, who had been wasting his time, and to Moriarty—especially Moriarty. John just hoped it was a kind of look he could switch on and off, and not a natural occurring one.

Sighing, John sat up and leaned his head back, attempting at some kind of stretch for his neck. A reflection of light caught his eye and he spotted a metal piece lying on the table. Peering at it closer, it appeared to be a key.

Sighing again, but this time with anticipation, John picked up the key and carefully placed it to the handcuffs’ lock. It clicked open.

Rushing with determination, John released his wrist, and with a second thought, pocketed the cuffs and key. Grabbing his gun, he turned off the safety and headed out the door. He couldn’t help but feel relief to be out of that room, but a new kind of doubt lurked in his mind, one that centered on Sherlock’s true reasoning for leaving the key. Surely he didn’t actually consider John’s condition and had left the key to prove his uncaring?

Pushing that thought aside, John crept down the hall; his thigh only throbbing weakly from the earlier wound; he checked the rooms that were unlocked for any signs of life before continuing down the hall. He came across steps leading up to what seemed to be the captain’s cabin of the yacht. Taking one at a time and preparing for any sudden movements, John made it to the top.

Before being able to take in his surroundings, he was greeted by a rough push to the jaw and stumbled back down the stairs, clumsily rolled down to the bottom, landing on his side. He groaned and glanced up to find a figure towering over him from the top of the stairs. In between them was John’s gun, lying on one of the steps.

Simultaneously, they both lunged for it. John managed to grasp it in his hand just as the man tackled him; John fell onto his back, back at the bottom of the stairs again. His gun was flung from his hand and away from his reach. He tried to stand up but the assailant wouldn’t back off and began to beat him, throwing punches to his head and kicks to his abdomen and side. He was stronger than the man who had attacked him earlier that day, so John didn’t think it was Moran.

John’s head was beginning to bleed—slowly but not showing any signs of stopping anytime soon—down the side of his head; his whole faced throbbed with developing bruises. His side was becoming sore by every kick; no doubt some of his ribs were on the verge of fracturing or breaking.

~~~~Adrenaline finally kicked in full force and John found himself fighting back. He lunged at one of the man’s extended legs in mid-kick and pulled, causing the man to stumble off balance. Taking his chance, John tackled him and pinned him to the ground. He threw his fist across his jaw countless times, and when he was confident the man wouldn’t get up any time soon, John reached for his gun and jammed it against the side of his head, hard, knocking him out cold.

He wasn’t dead, but would be unconscious for several minutes at least, giving John plenty of time to find Sherlock and get them off this sinking ship. Stiffly limping back towards the stairs, John took one at a time, senses on high alert as much as he could manage in his injured state for any other potential assaults.

At the top of the stairs, John found himself in the bridge of the ship, with a large window revealing the outside. Standing on the bow, were Sherlock and Moran.

John crouched down and moved to the door, wincing against the stiff movement it had on his bruised body. He opened it silently and, still crouching, headed out until he was outside and in earshot. There was a pillar on either side, and was easy to hide behind without being seen. John could either peer around the pillar, or he could look in front of him in a glass door and watch from there. He did both, maintaining his hiding spot, and watching from behind Sherlock. From the moment he came outside, it appeared that Moran and Sherlock had already begun a conversation.

Moran’s eyes were narrowed, and stood in front of Sherlock, gun in hand. “So how do I know you don’t have some kind of plan to get yourself out of…your negotiation?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, as if he was on the verge of rolling his eyes. He shed his coat off and flung it out of reach. “I’m unarmed, not wired, and now cold. You have the upper hand here.”

Moran shrugged. “Doesn’t seem that way when you’re the one telling me who I get to kill.”

John’s face paled. _What the hell?_ He hovered by the corner gun ready in hand. He peered around, keeping his distance but on alert.

“I’m simply surrendering. I did what you asked, so let John escape without trouble, and you get me.”

“What makes you think I’ll agree to that? Once you are dead, I could just kill John afterwards.”

“You could.” Sherlock agreed, his voice surprisingly stable and secure. “But that’s where our…negotiation comes in. You let John go, off this yacht and onto shore where he’ll be safe. Only then I’ll let you kill me, and then you leave. Go wherever you want and don’t expect any actions taken to apprehend you. You will be a free man.”

Moran raised an eyebrow. It seemed like he was actually going to go through with it. John wondered why he didn’t want to just kill the both of them and be done with it. What he said next answered John’s question.

“There’s not much fun in that—killing you without any begging. I have always preferred inflicting emotional pain before anything else. The victim tends to be their truest selves by then; see who they really are. But you already knew that.”

“Emotional manipulation—break their hearts before their minds. Is that what Moriarty did to you?”

Moran looked at him with disgust but Sherlock continued. “Yes I already knew that. It’s pathetically obvious. Inflict whatever sentiment-shattering-torture you’d like on me, just as long as John is unharmed.”

The assassin shrugged. “I wouldn’t say John’s not unharmed. What you just did was pretty heart shattering. And from what I could tell, your heart’s starting to break as well.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Has that been your plan all along? Forcing me to lie just so you can have the upper hand? That was quite risky.”

John’s forehead creased with confusion but he continued to listen.

“Risky?”

“Well assuming John has to be vulnerable enough to believe those said lies was quite a risk.”

“Well he’d believe anything. That hallucination of his could be quite convincing I heard. Besides, once I’m through with you, no matter if I did break your friend, what makes you think he won’t come after me to avenge your death?”

“I never said that he wouldn’t.” Sherlock explained.

Moran stared at him. “Very well…” He said and remained silent. A muffled voice broke the silence, appearing to be coming from Moran’s earpiece. It went quiet as Moran raised an eyebrow, his eyes peering just slightly behind the detective, looking into the glass door.

“Well?” Sherlock demanded, his voice booming against the cold air.

John noticed Moran rolled his shoulders and spoke much more confidently than moments earlier.

“Well,” He sneered, a grin forming into a smile. “It appears your friend has taken things into his own hands.”

John furrowed his brows _. What is he going on about? Who is he talking to?_

Moran raised his eyebrows, his attention drawn to the earpiece again. “Well, well, well,” He said again. “Apparently ~~~~he’s trying to bargain for a deal as well.”

_…No I’m not…_

Sherlock grunted. “John doesn’t know what he’s doing. He has nothing to do with this. It’s just me and you.”

John straightened up, back poised and rolled on his heels, about to strike, when Moran’s sudden command stopped him in his feat.

“I think he has everything to do with this. Now face the bow. On your knees, hands behind your head.” Moran ordered, bringing his gun to Sherlock’s head. The detective scoffed and remained standing.

Moran challenged him. “Get on your knees.”

Sherlock’s brows creased with just a fraction of surprise. “And why would I do that?”

“Because I’m going to kill you Mr. Holmes.”

“Not until I see John.”

Moran sneered. “On your knees or I’ll have Sven put a bullet in his brain. Who knows, maybe he’ll like it better than that tumor of his.”

_What’s Moran playing at? His sniper doesn’t have me…_

Sherlock tensed and glared at him. Stiffly, he got onto his knees, facing the front of the boat and tentatively raised his hands.

“What are you playing at?” Sherlock asked, his voice vibrating against the cold air, almost as if he was calm and confident now.

“Just taking this game to the next level.” John peered around the corner just as Moran stepped behind him and raised his gun to the detective’s head. He took his chance and stepped out, yelling with his commanding voice.

“STOP!”

John aimed his gun at Moran, slowly stepping closer until he was in clear view from behind the pillar. Moran kept his gun to Sherlock’s head, but didn’t shoot. Sherlock tensed at first when he first heard the shout, but then relaxed when he saw John out of the corner of his eye. He also had a look of confusion, a rare look upon the detective.

“Well, well, well,” Moran said again. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever show yourself.”

“I was just waiting for the right moment.”

“A minute earlier would have been lovelier John.” Sherlock claimed.

“Shut up.” John snapped. He was angry—once again—at the detective, for his careless, selfish plans. “This was your idea and it went wrong, so shut it so I can fix it.”

Sherlock exhaled aggravated and muttered. “It wasn’t my idea—.”

“So…” John looked back to Moran, gun pointed at his chest. “Moran is it? Where’s your sniper?”

“He’s around here somewhere. He had called it in that you had escaped his attempts of immobilizing you, and then I saw your reflection in the glass door. Thought I play along with it, see how much the detective means to you.”

“He means the world to me.”

“Apparently you don’t mean that much to him. Before you showed up, he had said some things.” Moran smirked. “Do you want me to break it to you or him?”

“You’re sick.” John jeered. “I heard you just a minute ago—you play with emotions first. That is what you’re doing right now.”

“I simply point out the reservations and uncertainties people have with their relationships. Doubts are always fun, as are lies told to keep said relationships—revealing them is always a treat. Because people are so, as Jim had put it, _boring_. People tend to share a common thread of insecurities.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Let me guess, you don’t trust him. You trust him with your life, but…not with your heart. You fear he will change his mind, get bored with you, and break your foolish little heart. As for him, well,” Moran laughed, sending a shrill of unease down John’s spine. “He can’t love you. He’s a psychopath, psychopaths don’t love.”

John narrowed his eyes. “You’d know wouldn’t you?”

Moran’s face faltered just a fraction. John spotted it and grinned, matching the malicious one directed at him a minute ago. “You loved Moriarty didn’t you? He was a psychopath; he didn’t care about anyone, just wanted others to do his dirty work because he didn’t like to get his hands dirty. Did he break up with you; break your foolish little heart?

The gun in Moran’s hand trembled but he steadied it quickly. “Sherlock Holmes doesn’t love you. He will just use you, like Jim used me. Sentiment is a weakness, it’s used against people, and believe me, pretty soon I will have used it against you.”

John pried further on, puffing out an empty laugh as he went. “Now we’re just throwing claims at each other. They don’t mean anything. They’re just empty threats…empty claims with not truth to them. And you haven’t even said anything that I haven’t heard before. He already told me, quite recently actually. So you don’t have anything to use now do you?”

Moran chuckled. “Oh I know exactly what he said.”

John’s brows furrowed as Moran continued. “We talked about it together actually, coming up a way together to break it to you. He confessed the whole thing to me; it had been a scheme to get you distracted enough because he knew he could get to me with other things on your mind. You sort of made it easier; you dared him to prove to you that it’s all true by letting you go and not caring. You see, I was targeting you thinking you still meant something to Sherlock. Apparently, I was wrong.”

John tensed. “I think I ought to mention that I didn’t believe him. Not one bit.”

Sherlock stiffened, but kept quiet, peering to John from the corner of his eye, afraid of turning his head and catching Moran’s attention.

“Why don’t you? It’s the truth, unless you’re in serious denial about it all and decide to ignore the facts. Who could blame you? I sure didn’t see it at first.”

“I don’t believe him because it’s not true. I may not know his intentions but I _know_ that he loves me in his own way. He may be a fucking liar at times, an utter dickhead too, but he is also the most honest—after he lies he always comes clean—er, he’s a valiant man, who had only recently discovered the power of love and how to use it in an incredibly selfish yet beneficial way to prove to me that his love is worthy of my heart. He’s saved me as I’ve saved him on countless occasions, and nothing he says right now—and certainly nothing you say, will change my mind.”

“John…” Sherlock finally spoke, keeping his head facing the front of the boat.

John kept his gun pointed at Moran but shifted his eyes to Sherlock, who was focusing on the floor.

“Sherlock…?” John asked anxiously.

“Moran’s right.”

John huffed out a laugh. “Seriously?”

“I’m serious John.” Sherlock urged, keeping his gaze intently focused on the deck. “This whole relationship was a mistake. It can’t work. I thought it could but…” He paused, his train of thought suddenly becoming the lightening in the storm.

“But?” John pried on, holding his breath. Sherlock exhaled, knowing all to well that this was it. This was the electrocution.

“Nothing is important to me other than the Work. You were convenient, a friend even, but romance has no place in my world and even though I tried to mean it, I truly didn’t. None of it. I kept it going to keep you at arms length, just until Moran was dealt with.”

John stared at him, his face crumbling against the sudden mechanical tone Sherlock produced as he explained the purpose of their relationship. It was cruel but unbelievable.

“Don’t bring me into this, it seems you guys have a lot to work out.” Moran stated. “Too bad one of you has to die soon.”

John continued to stare at Sherlock, who was avoiding his gaze and staring straight ahead. “Why are still saying that Sherlock?” John asked carefully.

“No matter what I say he will use your feelings against you!” Sherlock finally snapped. “I don’t know what I have to say to prove to you that I don’t love you, but it’s the truth and it’ll ultimately save you. Okay, yes I care about you but I don’t love you and I never will! This relationship was convenient to keep you sane from your tumor and to keep things from you! To distract you!”

“Jesus Sherlock, this isn’t the first time you’ve kept things from me. Listen to me: _I_ _can’t live without you_. I chose you…y-you changed my life. You’re not making any sense right now—.”

“John,” Sherlock said urgently.

John shook his head, but kept his aim steady at Moran. “No. You may have lied about many other things but you don’t lie about how you feel Sherlock. You never have. You always have to say how you feel so why are you taking it all back now?” John paused. “You don’t get to leave me, Sherlock, not again. I swear I’ll shoot Moran right now and it’ll all be over.”

Moran and Sherlock spoke at the same time.

“You shoot, I shoot.” Moran declared.

“No John it’s the only way!”

“No it’s NOT the only way!” John’s hand trembled but he composed himself and continued aiming the gun at Moran, who’s own gun hadn’t moved from Sherlock’s head. He inhaled deeply and continued. “You gave me the key to the handcuffs—obviously you wanted me to escape, and I know you did it so I could follow you, not to prove that you don’t care about me. I believe we can be extraordinary together—we can make us work, I know we can, but you have to live.”

Moran cut in. “Only one of you gets to live, otherwise I’ll just kill you both…” He sighed. “Now wouldn’t that be romantic?”

“Just shoot me. I’m the one you want to avenge Moriarty’s death. Leave John out of this!” Sherlock bellowed.

“Christ Sherlock, shut up!” John snapped. “I’m here for you; you don’t get to die again!”

Sherlock tensed and peered out of the corner of his eye, desperately trying to meet John’s, but his lover wouldn’t look at him. He looked down; only to miss the moment John did take to glance at his lover.

“John…” Sherlock whispered.

The army doctor straightened up, a thought occurring. “If you don’t love me Sherlock, if you don’t love me _at all_ , then I’ll drop my gun and I’ll let Moran shoot me.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as Moran laughed with excitement. “Ooh this is getting too good. You both want to die just prove something? Oh, if only Jim was alive to see this.”

Moran’s face fell with seriousness and he leaned into Sherlock’s ear, whispering with a menacing tone. John tried to gain something from it, but was cautious that any attempts would risk Sherlock’s life.

“Jim had said you were ordinary. And you are. You can’t even lie to John anymore about how you feel. You’ll always love him, no matter what. You can’t do it, even if it means it will save him. You’re weak and you’re boring. I think this level is just about over. If you make any attempts to stop me, I will have John scream your name as I slowly kill him in front of you. But for now, I’m just going to nudge him over the edge, take his heart and fool his mind. ”

Moran straightened back up, and judging by the look of dread on Sherlock’s face, John knew things were just going to get worse. Moran nodded his head curtly, and just as John registered what was going to happen, it was too late.

Sudden movement behind John caught the army doctor off guard, and the next thing he knew, arms were wrestling with his body, holding him still and knocking his gun out of his hand and onto the deck, out of arms reach. The assailant held him in a secure stance, leaving no room for John to fight his way out of.

“About time you showed up Sven.” Moran praised lightly. “Now go on and take him away. He doesn’t need to see this.”

John struggled as Sven began stepping backwards, heading towards the cabin. “No—Sherlock, Sherlock do something—.” John pleaded roughly.

Sherlock stared wildly at Moran. “Wait what are you—.”

“Turn back around or I’ll kill your friend.”

“This wasn’t supposed to—.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill him. At least, I’m not planning on it just yet.”

Moran kept his gun aimed at Sherlock’s neck, at an odd angle according to John. He raised his other hand and held it in a stop gesture. Sven paused by the door, still gripping John tightly.

“Actually, let him watch.” He said, his eyes burning with a murderous glare.

“No don’t let him see.” Sherlock’s voice trembled and he tensed. He peered out the corner of his eye to look at John, swimming with helplessness and regret. John twisted as much as he could but he couldn’t break free.

The next thing he knew, Moran steadied his aim and fired. Sherlock fell forward on his front, and remained deathly still.

John stared at his lover, the gunshot ringing in his ears. His vision blurred as Sven slowly released him, but he was too catatonic to notice. He didn’t notice when Moran knelt down as if checking a pulse and his lips moving into some kind of threat. All he saw was a still form of his lover, as still and lifeless as he was more than year ago outside of St. Bart’s.

He didn’t even notice that it had begun to rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this video shows the best way how so-and-so got shot (I don't want to spoil it in case you read the end notes first for whatever reason) just fast forward to about 30 seconds -- WARNING: Violence and mild blood
> 
> http:// www. awesomeannie. com/jack-bauer-shoots-renee-walker-buries-her-alive/


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Descriptions of violence, blood. Vague thoughts/acts of suicide. 
> 
> I apologize for not giving you lovelies a chapter last week. I was busy with finals and then writers block was not fun, but here's the next one, and I should be getting back to the once-a-week schedule. 
> 
> Thank you all of you who commented, they encourage me greatly. Please comment and let me know what you think of this chapter, as things start to get more shocking; also let me know if anything is confusing, I found that even I was confused a bit before I edited it so please let me know.
> 
> anyways, here you go :)

Chapter 10

 

_“I believe in heaven. I also believe in hell. I’ve never seen either, but I believe they exist. They have to exist. Because without a heaven, without a hell, we’re all just headed for limbo.” ~ Denny Duquette_

 

The moment Sherlock crumbled to the ground, something changed in John. The sudden impact of it all: the hallucinations, the tumor, the fact that Sherlock had survived the fall, their mutual feelings for each other; it all became a rapid tsunami crashing over John in the very moment. The tears streaming down his face at that moment, well, he didn’t bother wiping them away, or noticing that the current rainfall was drenching him cold to the bone. Nothing mattered anymore. Sherlock was gone. And that kind of loss triggered a few of the stages of grief all within the coming minutes.

The denial was gone in a flash. It was there only for a moment, clear as day. The denial could still be still there, but buried deep within, only as if to hold on to the seed of hope that Sherlock was alive, otherwise without it, the impact may just kill him right then and there.

John was angry. Burrowed deep inside for too long, an evil kind of hatred towards Moriarty and all the pain he inflicted upon John had erupted, and all John wanted now was to kill Moran.

But he was still in shock. He couldn’t move. He didn’t pay attention to his breathing; in fact he subconsciously thought he wouldn’t give a damn if he stopped breathing at all.

On his knees, John’s vision blackened around the edges; everything appeared surreal as his eyes kept a glazed focus on the limp body so far out of reach, John was afraid it’d disappear. Struggling to stand up, John limped towards his friend, only to collapse back to the ground.

Ashamed for being weak and pathetic, John bowed his head into his hands and wept without a care in the world. His heart wrenching sounds wailed in the crisp night while rain continued to lazily drench his frail body.

Sven backed away; Moran muttered an order and he left. Moran hovered by, and without a word, he left him as well, making his way to the main cabin. John peered out the corner of his eye and witnessed a satisfying grin lying on the bastard’s face.

Bargaining for revenge and some kind of end to it all, John stood up roughly, adrenaline pumping in his veins. He jumped Moran, taking him by surprise, much to John’s relief. But Moran had been in the army as well, and he dislodged himself from John’s hold and stumbled into the cabin. John followed him, throwing fists wherever he could hit, and tackled the man to the ground. Moran kneed John in the side, causing the army doctor to yelp. Moran squirmed away, only to have John grasp him by the hips to keep him from getting away,

Moran punched John in his solar plexus, causing him to curl in pain and fall to his side. He grabbed him by the shoulders; white-hot pain shot up John’s injured shoulder and burned his nerves. Grimacing, John attempted to dislodge himself, but Moran was quicker; he tightened his hold and threw John out the door, smashing his body against the glass door lying opposite.

John slumped to the ground, wincing in pain as he tried but failed to stand up and retaliate. Moran stepped in front of him and wrapped his hand around John’s throat, forcing him to keep his head up.

John’s eyes narrowed with hatred towards Moran, his hand tightening around Moran’s wrist. The assassin picked up a shard of glass and held it to John’s throat, directly against the carotid artery.

“Any last words?” Moran rasped, a satisfying look appearing on his face.

John glared at him murderously. “Go on do it. It won’t change anything.” He declared, his voice tragically breaking.

Moran’s face relaxed dreadfully, sending a shiver down John’s spine. “You’re right. It won’t. Why don’t I keep you alive for a little longer? See how mad you go. Maybe you’ll just kill yourself.”

Moran released the glass shard from the fatal point, his other hand still holding John’s neck. As soon as the piece was well away from his artery, John swung his free hand with a shard in hand and plunged it into the side of Moran’s neck, and then twisted.

His grasped weakened generously and blood spurred out freely, gurgling out his neck and mouth onto John and the floor. Within the minute, he was dead.

John pushed the body off of him and crawled away. He stayed in equal distance from Moran’s body and Sherlock’s. The tears had stopped; the sudden acceptance lurked its way into John’s mind, but he blocked it out. He couldn’t accept it, not now.

Lying on his side, Sherlock’s neck was visible to the world, revealing a bloody bullet wound staining the collar of his jacket and shirt. But the grief was so blinding that it didn’t occur to John that the wound wasn’t fatally deep enough.

He was wearing the purple shirt—the one John was always so mesmerized by. It was blood stained now—spoiled, useless. The suit jacket lay heavily from being dampened by the continuing rainfall. Shivering for the first time, John kneeled by his lover and gently laid his hand over the man’s still shoulder. His eyes remained dry; a sob threatened to erupt in his chest but he refused to let it.

John didn’t know what to do now. Life appeared meaningless and he was in his upmost miserable state he had ever been in. He couldn’t move on; that just wasn’t likely. Deep down John figured the first time the hallucination would appear, and it probably would soon, it would break him. He didn’t want to see it anymore…or did he? He wanted to end it all before it got even the chance to break him further—however impossible that seemed at the moment.

Leaning forward, John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment. Taking a deep breath, John whispered:

“I love you Sherlock. I always will.”

Footsteps echoed across the floor and came to abrupt halt. John turned around just as Sven lunged towards him. Already weakened by Moran, John barely managed to put up a fight. Sven remained silent, but a mere sense of hatred was in his eyes; John suspected now that Sven’s boss was dead he sought revenge for himself.

Sven shoved John against the pillar before the army doctor could speak, and knocked his head hard against it. He was knocked out cold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock internally groaned furiously, anger clawing in his muscles, desperate to act. But he knew he couldn’t. Moran may be unconscious or dead (he didn’t know with his eyes closed) but Sven was kept in the loop, and if he saw Sherlock make any attempts to reveal himself to John, John’s life would be at greater risk. And Sherlock couldn’t do that. He’d fake his death if that meant John would be safe—especially if Sherlock would be reunited with his blogger afterwards, but that was a gratifying addition—more than gratifying, but not the priority. John’s life was, and if that meant Sherlock had to keep still and play “dead”, then so be it.

His eyes remained closed, but he could tell Sven’s footsteps were shuffling away, heavy on the toes suggesting he was dragging John with him.

_If I just wait until the coast is clear, then I’ll go after John…_

The footsteps grew farther and farther; Sherlock recalled on the moments leading up to this. He hadn’t counted on Moran using just claims as an emotional weapon. It was childish and only what a fool would do. Sherlock was sure John didn’t have any doubts, but when it appeared Moran wasn’t going to stop, Sherlock was left with nothing to do but admit the lies. He hoped John would back away and let whatever happens happen, but he hadn’t been counting on John’s persistence in his feelings for the detective. He just wouldn’t accept the possibility of it all.

Sherlock sighed softly with frustration, and remained still. A door creaked shut, and then a creepier silence bestowed upon the ship. It was time now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John slouched against the wall, his whole body aching with fresh cuts and bruises afflicted on him minutes before. The minute Sven had taken him into a vacant room he began beating John almost to a pulp, lashing his anger out for Moran’s death. All this avenging was making John sick; it wouldn’t bring the dead back, but part of him understood the need for closure, and so he didn’t fought back.

Sven huffed with exhaustion, and without a word, he left. John noticed he didn’t have a gun or weapon on him, and suspected that’s where he was going to retrieve: to put an end to it. John couldn’t help feeling anxious for it; he wasn’t eager on dying, but couldn’t help hoping he’d see Sherlock when the passing was over.

A massive wave of tranquility washed over him, and for the first time, John looked up expectantly, his trodden heart uplifting and revealing bliss over his beaten face.

The allusion stood still in front of John, his face expressing tidal waves of emotion it almost brought John back to tears. The army doctor grinned tightly, his face wincing in pain.

“You’re here for me now.” He stated hoarsely.

The hallucination eyed him for a moment in silence before responding. “You still don’t get it, do you?” John’s eyebrows rose slightly, expecting a further response. The delusion obliged.

“I’m here by your own doing. Whenever you question your actions or recall my own—doubt, anger and desire for answers would portray me. I am not real. You know that. You also know how I—how Sherlock, truly feels for you. I am not him. I’m just here for you. You don’t want me to be here and yet you always feel a wave of tranquility whenever I appear, so that’s what you need to ask yourself. Do you ever want to see me again or not?”

John remained silent, his eyes drooping ever so slightly. He looked at the hallucination, his gaze losing focus. “So, um…” He began, slurring his words. “What you’re saying…is that I shouldn’t want you here, and once I tell myself that, you’ll go away?”

The allusion remained silent and still. John nodded dimly, his eyes closing for a moment. He reopened them to find the apparition still there. His brows furrowed.

“I j-just ‘old myself I don’ want you here…or do I have to say it a-loud?”

The hallucination remained impassive, apart from his eyes, which were now glistening. The image grew fuzzy, and John began to panic.

“No don’t I was joke-ing, I was…joking…” He slurred. “P-pleassse… don’t leave. Stay. With me. Before I go…I ‘on’t want to be alone…”

The ghost remained fuzzy but visible. _“This isn’t funny John.”_ He said sternly. His voiced sounded distant, almost as if it echoed in John’s mind more than in the room.

_“Stay awake John.” It whispered._

“Mhm, I can’t seem to…j-just stay with me…stay here…for me—.” John choked suddenly, a feeble attempt of a sob shuddered from his throat. He gasped, opening his eyes wide as he stared at the hallucination.

“I’m—I’m dying aren’t I?” He didn’t expect an answer. “I’m dying and all he could do—all you could do, was deny it all…deny us. Why?” His voice broke, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes. John tried to sit up, but winced from the pain and a whimper escaped his lips. He slouched further against the wall, head lolling to the side. He tried fighting the black wave of unconsciousness, but he was in too much pain; the darkness seemed so welcoming.

_I’m in pain though…that’s a good thing isn’t it?_

The hallucination of Sherlock evaporated, and John let out a piercing shriek, tears suddenly crashing down his cheeks.

“No-no-nonono, please come b-back. I can’t do this alone. He’s g-gone, you’re all I have left…I’m don’t want to b-be a-alone…” John trailed off, taking in deep, shuddering breaths. The tears had subsided, for now.

The pain seemed to ease suddenly—an alarming calmness shivered down John’s body.

_No I’m not ready yet…_

Tranquility hovered in the silence, and the tears returned, slowly falling down his cheeks as he closed his eyes, resting his body against the wall in defeat…

The door barged open, a whirl of a coatless detective came thundering in, desperation and determination piercing the serene veil of the room with his sharp turns and gazes.

Sherlock spotted John instantly against the wall, eyes closed and his head and body bleeding profusely from a recent beating.

_Oh God no…_

“John? John!”

Sherlock rushed towards his lover’s side and knelt down. He gently cupped John’s jaw and tilted it upwards.

“John? Can you hear me?”

A whimper escaped his blogger’s throat. He peeked his eyes opened, but then closed them.

“Sh-lock?” He slurred. “You came back. I-I thought you…lettin’ me go—.”

“I’m here John. I’m never letting you go.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around the injured man and cradled him to his chest, holding him gently but firm. “I love you too much to let you go.” He murmured.

John shifted weakly, his eyes sluggishly opening to stare up at Sherlock, yet his gaze was unfocused and glazed with unshed tears. “You love me?”

“Yes. Of course I do John.”

John stared at the detective, showing no immediate reaction.

“I—I wish he would have s-said it…” He stated. Sherlock’s brows furrowed slightly, unsure if John meant to say that.

“Who?” He gently asked.

John’s eyes fluttered close as he said: “Sherlock”.

Sherlock tightened his grip. “He did John. He’s right here.”

John looked back up at the detective, a faint sliver of recognition forming in his eyes, but then he went still.

Cold dread impaled Sherlock’s chest, only to withdraw when John finally blinked, a tear escaping down his cheek.

“Oh…okay, good,” He breathed. “C-can I go now?”

Sherlock’s stare widened, the impalement in his heart piercing again with a twist.

“No John, stay. Stay with me.”

“But…I want to see him again, see Sherlock…” John began to whimper; however he was unable to keep his eyes open.

“No, stay alive John.” Sherlock said firmly. “I’m right here, you recognized me. You know it’s me, John!”

John remained unconscious. Sherlock desperately pressed his fingertips against the man’s neck, and found a pulse—slow but there nonetheless. Wrapping an arm around John’s waist, Sherlock picked him up and took his arm around his neck.

He limped out, practically dragging his blogger beside him. Realizing the slow pace, Sherlock paused and lifted John off his feet and into a cradle. With a stable hold, Sherlock hurried out the room, water splashing around his steps.

Outside, it had stopped raining. Sherlock went to the far railing and looked across to the docks. Hidden in the shadows, he found the sign he needed: Mycroft had found them!

Sherlock looked around, thinking of a way to get across. He gently laid John down and went to fetch his coat, which was discarded closer to the cabin.

John blinked his eyes opened, observing a dark, hazy figure in the distance. Pain hummed in his body, and he couldn’t seem to move. A sudden movement caught his eye behind the figure, and for some reason, he panicked.

Adrenaline kicked in suddenly, and the world spun around as John sat up onto his side. The world grew grey around him, but he couldn’t stop. He felt a need to find something, but he didn’t know what. He looked over the railing and saw a glimmer of Sherlock’s face in the water.

“I’m coming Sh-lock.” The army doctor slurred, his vision blacked but he wouldn’t slacken his grip on the railing.

_I won’t have the will to swim but at least I’ll be with him…_

_No John._ A voice whispered urgently in his mind.

Confused, John backed away, but the delusion in the water remained, and for some reason, convinced John to climb over.

The actual detective fetched his coat and whirled around to see John heavily climb over the railing.

“No John—!”

_I’ll just sink underneath, until I pass out…_

The fall would be his last rush—his last dose of adrenaline before he’ll be with Sherlock again. Since Sherlock was dead, he’d be the one in Heaven or wherever, not the hallucination. This was it.

Inhaling deeply, John loosened his grip off the railing and slid his foot over the edge. Air began to rush around him when suddenly it came to an abrupt halt. A tight grasped held him in the air by his good shoulder, and subconsciously John gripped the side, suddenly desperate for a hold. Looking up, he saw Sherlock looking down upon him; eyes shockingly wide.

“What the hell are you thinking, John?”

The detective pulled John over the railing. The blogger crumbled to the floor, the strain of it all was too much. His breathing grew suddenly heavy and desperate.

“John calm down. I need to get you to shore but you need to stay alive.” Sherlock explained, his tone heartbreakingly desperate.

“P-please…” John shuddered, his eyes glazed over and unfocused. “He’s down there, I want Sh-lock, I want—.” Tears slipped from his closed eyelids, falling down his cheekbones. He wasn’t looking at Sherlock, but up at the sky, the rainclouds thundering in the distance as the rain began to pick up again.

Footsteps squeaked against the wet floor behind Sherlock, and the detective turned around to see Sven heading towards them, gun in hand.

Sherlock panicked. John was in no shape to swim, but there was no other choice now. He turned back to John and lifted his chin. John remained disoriented, his eyes flickering beyond Sherlock and never focusing.

“John,” The detective began calmly. “Okay, John, I-I’ll let you see him. Is that what you want?”

John whimpered but nodded. “P-please…”

“We’re going to jump in the water. It will be cold. Do not let go of me, do you understand me?”

John’s eyes finally found Sherlock’s, and he simply blinked, mumbling incoherently.

“John?” Sherlock pressed on. The man only muttered a word as his eyes sluggishly closed.

“P-ple-ase…”

Without any other choice, and Sven closing in on them, Sherlock climbed over the railing. He dragged John over it and held him tightly to his side. He remained unaware, slumped against Sherlock’s side.

Without turning around, Sherlock held John and leapt off the boat. They fell into the cold depths feet first, concurrently as a gunshot rang in the night sky.

Icy water surrounded the pair in the river depths, paralyzing them beneath the surface. The detective’s shoulder ached for some reason, but he ignored it. Sherlock’s gripped tightened around John, but the doctor began to panic and push away from his grasp. His eyes were squinted and his mouth drawn in a tight line; his body began to convulse and instinct kicked in to swim to the surface.

Sherlock held onto John and began to swim away from the boat, but John twisted away. He was reaching for something, his face expressing desperation and contorted in pain. Sherlock deduced his expression, and with horror realized what was happening.

_There’s a hallucination in the water…_

John’s body trembled in pain; his mind was throbbing and numb at the same time. The hallucination remained motionless in front of him, a red haze gathering around them. John didn’t know what happened, but for some reason, he was desperate for contact. He needed to feel Sherlock’s skin, he needed him tragically so because he wasn’t ready to let go. He wasn’t ready to accept that Sherlock was gone, dead above him. But something was pulling away; something wouldn’t let him near the ghost who was once man he loved…

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pulled him away from the boat’s side. He broke to the surface, gasping in air for his desperate lungs. John gasped beside him, and suddenly began to sob; a wail escaped his throat, one that Sherlock never wanted to hear again.

The detective shifted closer to his blogger, ignoring the pain shooting through his shoulder. John tried to squirm away but Sherlock wasn’t allowing it. He pressed himself to John and wrapped his arms around him tighter to keep John as warm as possible in the frigid waters.

“John,” He whispered to his lover’s ear, who hadn’t acknowledged him yet. “It’s me. I’m here. Open your eyes.”

John stopped squirming; the water began to settle around them.

“Sh-lock?” He inquired, keeping his eyes downcast.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s baritone voice echoed against the silence.

“You’re here.” John’s brows furrowed and he refused to meet Sherlock’s eye. “I—I don’t understand.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He continued to stare at his confused lover, who remained still against him as they floated in the water. For once, Sherlock Holmes didn’t know what to do. He was lost. He was exhausted with trying to persuade John that he didn’t die, and that he had been right here this whole time. But his lover had seen the act, and it was tragically convincing it seemed it had broken him.

_Damn Moran! Damn him and Moriarty!_

Sherlock wasn’t one to think such curses as that, but he did anyway. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. All that mattered now was getting John to the hospital; he needed to get them to the docks before hypothermia began.

The detective began to swim towards the docks, pulling John beside him. The docks were close; a ramp led to the higher level. Sirens were echoing from a distance, but were definitely coming closer. John remained oblivious to the movement and sounds; he was silent but his brows were still creased with confusion. Sherlock was grateful for this simply because John wasn’t trying to break free.

John’s bloody head shimmered in the moonlight; a faint red stain was trailed in the water behind them, no doubt mostly John’s. The detective was in too much shock to pay attention to any of his own wounds, but he knew once the shock wore off, they’d strike him in an instant.

Finally, he reached the ramp leading up to the dock. The detective cradled his blogger and carried him to the top. John became more aware now; he squirmed in Sherlock’s hold and then was gently laid down.

Before Sherlock could do anything, John scurried away as much as he could. He mumbled incoherently and stumbled away, reaching the edge of the docks.

Sherlock remained where he was but he grew more concern for John. How was it possible to feel this much worry?

“John—.”

“W-where is…” He mumbled and looked around; his eyes were only parted slightly and unfocused.

“You have a head injury. You need to relax John.” Sherlock attempted to step forward but John was startled by the movement and stumbled away.

“I—I’m…”

“John!” Sherlock yelled, loosing his patience.

The man finally looked at him expectantly. “Sherlock…”

“You can see me?”

John appeared to think before he answered. “Yeah—.”

“What do you see?”

“You—.”

“ _Describe_ what you see.” Sherlock calmly ordered.

John blinked heavily as he stared. “Um…you’re all wet. T-there is blood on your shirt a-and…”

John’s eyes traveled to Sherlock’s neck and gasped. “On your neck…”

Sherlock sighed. “Do I _look_ just like the hallucination you’ve been seeing?”

“…No.” John exhaled deeply. “You really are alive.” He stated.

Sherlock relaxed, and just as he thought, sudden pain shot through his body, originating from his shoulder. “God yes, John! It’s me. It’s really me.”

Relief flooded him and before he could stop himself, tears escaped his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. “Oh John…”

Understanding flooded John’s eyes and he began to whimper. “Why? W-why w-would you do that again—?”

“Come here John.” The detective managed to say. John stood up, wincing with pain, and stepped forward. Movement behind the detective caught his eye and he halted.

“John?” A man revealed himself from the shadows and hurried to the blogger.

John looked at him and his brows furrowed. “What are you doing here?” He mumbled. He stumbled forward just in time for the man to catch him.

“Dr. Watson, can you tell me who you were talking to?” The man asked.

Sherlock stared in horror at the man. “He was talking to me.”

The man ignored him. The understanding in John’s eyes vanished and was replaced but shame and hurt.

“Oh God no…” He mumbled.

Sherlock looked at the man in horror. “What the hell are you doing? John it’s me—.”

The detective took a step towards his lover but the man glared at him and revealed a gun attached to his belt. He gripped it tightly as if he was ready to pull it out in any moment.

Sherlock froze in his step. John looked at him as if his heart was breaking completely to pieces. He leaned against the man for support and began to stumble away.

“C-can you take me to the hospital.” He managed to ask slowly.

“Actually…you’re going for a swim.” The man answered.

John looked at him, eyes widening, then back at Sherlock. Before he could utter another word, the man grabbed John by his sodden jumper and shoved him off the dock. Sherlock watched in horror as his lover disappeared over the edge and soon a heavy splash followed. Silence pierced through the night as Sherlock glared at Derek Shepherd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a video showing how Sherlock takes John out of the water and what the dock sort of looks like
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbdO0gZYlz0
> 
>  
> 
> please comment :) I would love to know if these videos help


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here it is. Warning: it gets a bit angst and it quite short. The next chapter will come around Monday- the latest Friday. I don't own Derek Shepherd, he belongs to Shonda Rhimes and ABC. 
> 
> This chapter was quite inspired by Grey's Anatomy episode "Some Kind of Miracle." but you don't have to watch the show to read this.
> 
> IMPORTANT: I edited chapter 7, the conversation between Mycroft and Sherlock because I realized Shepherd's involvement wasn't quite hinted at enough.
> 
> It's almost 3 A.M. So I apologize about any mistakes, hopefully I'll be happy about this in the morning..or later in the morning...
> 
> So without further ado, here it is. Enjoy and leave comments! I love them! AND read the end notes please.

Chapter 11

 

_"The brain in the human body's the most mysterious organ. It learns. It changes. It adapts. It tells us what we see, what we hear. It lets us feel love. I think it holds our soul. But no matter how much research we do, no one can really say how all of that delicate grey matter inside our skull works. And when it's hurt, when the human brain is traumatized, well, that's when it gets even more mysterious." ~ Callie Torres_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Darkness enclosed around John as he sunk further and further down. It was unreal; he shouldn’t be sinking this fast. Coldness drenched him to the bone, and he felt a sudden pressure on his chest. His arms were raised above his head; his eyes were closed as if he was sleeping. His throat was tight and felt like it was being constricted. John was paralyzed; the cold water froze him in place and he just kept sinking. He couldn’t fight it; he couldn’t swim up towards the surface no matter how loud his mind screamed at his body. He just couldn’t move.

Yet he was perfectly conscious. And then suddenly, calm all at once. The screaming in his mind became muffled and the chill of the river suddenly became nonexistent.

_Is this what dying feels like?_ John thought. He opened his eyes and a cold thrill of panic rushed down his spine followed by a wave of tranquility. It was dreadful though, but John couldn’t figure out why that was. It was the same kind of peace—almost as if time had paused—and he felt it whenever Sherlock would appear as a hallucination. And there it was, in front of him, not sinking nor swimming, just there, in the water, pale as death.

John just stared at the phantasm. It stared back. The coldness increased and his bones began to ache again. But he couldn’t move. His chest pain increased and he no longer could hold his breath.

So he breathed.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silence pierced through the night as Sherlock glared at Derek Shepherd. He remained still in place, his body and mind utterly stunned—which was quite a thing to happen to Sherlock Holmes.

“Surprised?” Shepherd’s voice rang sharp through the night air. He unhooked his gun from his belt and aimed it at Sherlock but didn’t pull the trigger right away. He kept his finger on it, as if he was definitely prepared to pull it, but Sherlock saw right through that. He wanted to share his part of it—it was obvious in the look in his eyes. He was practically begging for recognition.

The detective didn’t answer at first. He narrowed his eyes at Shepherd and remained silent for a moment longer.

“John trusted you.” The detective said, his voice quivering with the slightest strain, Shepherd missed it completely. He straightened up ever so slightly and hid his fear that John was probably drowning at this very moment and continued to glare at Shepherd.

“He trusted you as a doctor, a profession that was not _supposed_ to bring harm on people. He trusted you and he doesn’t trust easily.”

Shepherd merely shrugged. “Moran saw the opportunity and contacted me. It was just orders.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him—expecting him to continue. Shepherd obliged easily.

“I stayed in contact with Moran after you apparently faked your death. Before, I was just providing information—medical files things like that. I gave them to Moran and he gave them to his boss. Moran had called me when John’s symptoms first started. He had an idea and wanted my opinion. It was just _too_ easy.” He chuckled.

“This was the plan? Moran planned to use John’s tumor against him. Why?”

Shepherd shrugged. “For the upper hand. Emotional manipulation and control while observing from afar. I made it all possible.”

Sherlock inwardly flinched at the same words and narrowed his eyes. It seemed Shepherd was very proud of what he did. Sherlock didn’t think he knew Moran was dead, and decided to continue to pry out as much information he had as he could. “So what exactly did you do to John?”

Shepherd answered without question. He was clearly proud of his work, and liked the recognition and wanted more. But he lacked what Moriarty had: the ability to keep it to oneself (for as long as possible at least). This was going to be Shepherd’s mistake; Sherlock knew that right away.

“I left a bit of the tumor behind. On purpose of course. It wasn’t a precaution; the tumor was so simple to take out but I thought leaving it would keep John in my control—allow his symptoms would remain and very likely drive him insane. And as I believe, they pretty much did.”

Sherlock raised his chin as he grasped Shepherd’s tale. “Moran’s idea though. First he enlisted you to take “care” of John—to ensure the tumor still remained and expect further psychological trauma over time. How very…clever of him.”

“It was all me really.” Shepherd sneered at the detective. There it was: the narcissistic attention-seeking identity was just too obvious…and Moran’s mistake.

“You were expecting me to return.” Sherlock sated as he continued to pry more out of the foolish man.

“Well of course. The tumor was a blessing. Once the symptoms became obvious, I was put into place as his surgeon and it all just played out splendidly. We’d know you’d be back eventually, sooner than we expected though. But nonetheless, you were back and thus, Moran was able to watch the both of you.”

“So all of this was just to—.”

“Finish the game.” Shepherd interrupted. “Complete Moran’s revenge.” He grinned.

Sherlock glared at the man and then smiled back, cheekily. “You’re too confident. An army doctor turned brain surgeon, and illegal work on the side. You’re too obvious; you have too much desire for recognition. You’re just a narcissistic fool.” The detective teased. “Moran was blinded by his need for revenge. But you, you did it just for the appreciation of your skill. There’s always something Moriarty overlooks. In this case, your ignorance for anything but yourself.”

Shepherd didn’t seem to believe him and simply grinned wider. “That hasn’t affected my job yet.”

Sherlock grinned this time. “No. No, it hasn’t. But it will. Your need to gain praise will be your end.

This time, Shepherd’s face faltered. “How?”

“You just had to take the time to explain. You wanted me to know you were part of it. You acted out the caring doctor perfectly, answering every question with honesty. Yet acting normal, well, you become careless eventually.”

“About What?”

“My brother.”

As the words began to register on Shepherd’s face, a car screeched around the corner and came to an abrupt stop. Immediately, men in suits hurried out, guns already drawn out. Shepherd was startled by the sudden tactic and tried to re-aim at the detective. He shot once but missed greatly despite his (said) experience. He was apprehended before he could fire again and was dragged to another car and out of sight.

Whether or not Sherlock would see or hear from him again, he knew Mycroft would inform him about that later. Right now, he didn’t care if he ever would get more answers.

Mycroft appeared from the car, a quick stride in their steps. Sherlock decided to thank his brother later and ignored him. Before a word was uttered, the detective discarded his heavy coat, rushed down the ramp and dived into the water in search of his blogger.

The cold water wrapped around him to the bone; his injured shoulder throbbed as he stroked down into the depths, but he ignored it again. John needed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John was unconscious. But his subconscious wasn’t. It was like he was stuck between living and drowning, visioning something like a dream. He couldn’t move or swim away; he was hovering in the middle of the “in between”: above him he could sense the surface, and below him was darkness. Dark blue and grey surrounded him, and that was it. Well, apart from the hallucination hovering in front of him.

John starred at the phantasm, and it stared back. It was eerie. John felt odd whenever he locked eyes with it. Sherlock was pale—grey and almost green as if rotting from being in the water for too long. But then his lips were blue, and it was his eyes that sent horror shivering down John’s chest. They were completely dull, as if life ceased to exist in that brilliant brain of his. Grey eyes (the original colors were lost) looked intently at the army doctor, but they were distant and the pupils were pinprick. He honestly appeared more like a dead body then a mere hallucination.

This caused John to panic. His chest wanted to swell up but it wouldn’t move. It remained tight and heavy. His arms remained still by his sides, and his whole body just ached with numbness. He didn’t feel alive, but he didn’t feel dead. So what the hell was he?

Warmth slowly surrounded John around his waist.

_What was that?_

It was gone before John could think about it further. The Sherlock-figure in front of him began to fade, and John’s panic only grew. His thoughts roared in his mind but he couldn’t speak them out. He couldn’t move or reach out. He desperately wanted to shudder some kind of release but his chest tightened and his mind throbbed painfully.

_Please don’t go Sherlock…_

John stilled—or at least put his attempts to move at a halt. The warmth was back, and this time, it lasted longer, but only for a second, and then it was gone. The hallucination grey dimmer again. It was now grey—almost completely transparent with the water surrounding them.

A voice echoed in his head.

_Breathe John, breathe for me…_

The voice resembled the detective’s, but it was so far John could barely grasp it.

_What’s the point? You’re right here, in front of me…_

John wanted to let out some sort of wail or sob, but chest only felt heavy pressure and no release. But then the voice came back, and it sounded like a loud whisper, right in front of him.

_John…_ The voice was desperate and close…almost as if it _really_ was right in front of him.

_Oh_. John realized.

Only one explanation as to why it sounded like Sherlock finally formed in John’s subconscious.

_Sherlock’s alive._

Hope swelled in his chest, causing more pain but John ignored it this time. The warmth came back, and this time, it lingered on his lips.

_I can feel him; it’s actually Sherlock, isn’t it?_

It seemed like the hallucination heard him, for he gradually faded again until all that was visible was his face. It grinned.

It was just a mere grin. A slight flick of the lips and then it was gone. The face remained impassive.

Coldness came back instead, and it shocked John painfully in his chest and head. He chest felt suddenly hallow, and his need to inhale increased desperately.

_Wait come back!_

Another voice echoed in his mind, but it was cold and raspy, like it’s own throat was being constricted from air.

_Is that what you truly want? More than just a whiff of Sherlock Holmes?_

_Yes! Yes, please, let me live!_

_Then breathe!_

John’s chest felt completely empty and light. He concentrated on Sherlock’s voice; on the warmth slowly disappearing from his lips, and then he inhaled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock broke the surface, gasping for air. He held John tight against his uninjured shoulder and paddled to the docks. Mycroft waited by the edge, Sherlock’s in his arms. Flashing sirens brightened the night from a close distance, and the sounds indicated they were closing in.

Mycroft helped pull John out of the water and wrapped the coat around him to start to warm him back up. Sherlock pulled himself out and immediately crawled to John’s side.

“Sherlock, you’re bleeding—.”

“Not now.”

The detective sat up on his knees and began to perform CPR on his blogger. He tilted John’s chin up and breathed into his mouth; John’s chest remained still. He did it again. Nothing.

Sherlock breathed for John a third time, and a choking sound exhaled from John’s mouth, excruciating slow.

“Breathe John, breathe for me.”

Sherlock performed another set of compressions and then breathed into his lover.

“John…”

The army doctor’s eyes peeked open however they were unfocused. He let out another raspy exhale but wouldn’t inhale afterwards; his eyes blinked and then began to droop close.

John!”

A rough cough finally escaped his lover’s throat, and his body convulsed; he hurled to his side and coughed up a lungful of water. Sherlock patted his back soothingly as he let out a breath as pure relief flooded his mind.

John finished coughing; his eyes fluttered closed but he was semi-conscious, his breathing heavy and stressed.

Sherlock tightened his coat around his blogger and didn’t acknowledge the paramedics as they attempted to transfer John onto the stretcher. He hadn’t realized the ambulance had arrived; instead Sherlock lifted John to his chest and cradled him.

“Just give him a moment.” He heard his brother tell the medics. They hummed in response but hovered close by.

John remained quiet and semi-conscious. He was shivering even with the coat, and his lips still remained a faint tint of blue.

“He needs to go to the hospital. His head—and he-he could still get hypothermia—.” Sherlock’s voice broke and he buried his face into John’s matted hair. He began to shudder, and wanted nothing more than to cry but his body wouldn’t let him; his chest ached with a longing release as he continued to shake.

“John please, say something.”

Sherlock leaned back enough to look at John’s face. He was ghostly pale and his eyes were lowered. He could hear John trying to form a word but was having trouble moving his lips.

“John I know you can hear me. Say something.” Sherlock pleaded.

John peeked his eyes opened a bit and he managed to catch Sherlock’s. “Oh Sher…”

Sherlock breathed out and tightened his hold around John. “I’ve got you John. I’m here.”

John’s eyes closed and then succumbed to his subconscious again. Sherlock continued whispering as the medics moved their way in and Mycroft managed to grasp a few words.

“Don’t die John, I’m here. I’m here…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy...  
> If you're confused, feel free to comment. When John is talking to himself/hallucination, he's unconscious, it's just him dreaming of sorts. Whether or not that's possible, who knows really..
> 
> next chapter should be ready by Monday or a few days later. AND things will be speeding up so look forward to that.   
> I'll tell you now, the hallucinations aren't completely gone yet, not until surgery. I know I keep bringing them up but there's a reason still. And Derek Shepherd will be mentioned again so hopefully this chapter/plot twist won't seem like a pointless tangent. Things WILL be explained.
> 
> leave a comment/question/concern/appraisal :) thanks for sticking to the story so far.
> 
> ~Erin


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is... for whatever reason, I actually really like how this chapter turned out.
> 
> The time period so far: it's now dawn/early morning, yesterday morning John was attacked, then they had lunch/hallucination scene, then car accident then kidnapped so it's been about 24 hours
> 
> Medical terms' meanings will be at the end notes, just so they won't spoil it.  
> The degrees are in Celsius (so 30 degrees would be about 86 in Fahrenheit) 
> 
> song lyrics are italicizes with quotations while thoughts are just italicized; the lyrics in this chapter are from Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol (for those Grey fans, I'm so sorry!)
> 
> Dr. Grey and Dr. Hunt belong to Shonda Rhimes, though I just took their names not really their characters.
> 
> Without further ado, here it is! Comment please :) Next week I have quite of few things to do with limited time so the next chapter may be later, but it might depend.

CHAPTER 12

 

_“Heaven. Hell. Limbo. No one really knows where we’re going. Or what’s waiting for us when we get there. But the one thing we can say for sure, with absolute certainty, is that there are moments that take us to another place - moments of heaven on earth. And maybe for now, that’s all we need to know.” ~ Denny Duquette_

 

John opened his eyes to darkness again. He was numb; he felt cold and empty within, but the slightest grasp of heat surrounded him, and yet as he tried to bathe into it, it would begin to fade. Hovering in front of him was a hallucination, skin clean of any wounds and face devastatingly poignant.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, his voice higher than usual and resonant in the dark.

The figure remained silent, but its expression distressed John. Something was wrong.

“Please just tell me—is something the matter? Why are we here?” John asked, his voice now normal, but far away, not quite coming from where he is.

The hallucination gulped as if nervous to say something, but it spoke before John could continue questioning him.

“It…might be too late.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The stretcher was rushed through the doors of the emergency room, the consulting detective trailing close behind.

“Patient’s name is John Watson. He has head and abdomen trauma. Hypothermic drowning; pulled out of the river after an unknown amount of time unconscious. CPR was successful on scene, however his temperature remained at 29 degrees en route. And he’s bradycardic.”

They made their way into a trauma room; doctors and nurses rushed in and out and transferred an unconscious John onto the trauma bed. They attached various machines and drips to the army doctor, as well as an oxygen tube under his nose. One nurse began shredding John’s oatmeal jumper with scissors, and Sherlock couldn’t help feeling bad about it. It was John’s favorite.

Sherlock hovered by the wall while another nurse began stripping the detective of his sodden jacket, speaking to him but not receiving a response.

“Sir you need medical attention. Your friend’s in good hands.”

Sherlock brushed her away and stepped closer to his blogger. He extended his hand to take John’s but then suddenly John started to seize uncontrollably.

“John!”

“Sir, get back—.”

John’s body shuddered violently and his throat convulsed painfully. He was starting to choke on his own saliva but the doctors weren’t doing anything.

“Do something!” Sherlock commanded, his voice not sounding like him at all.

A medical person tilted John’s head to the side and held his neck as steady as possible to ensure he wouldn’t choke; others held him as stable as they could while he seized.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John furrowed his brows. “Too late? For what?”

The image of Sherlock regarded him with pity, but a sudden shriek invaded the subconscious.

 _“I love you Sherlock. I always will.”_ The quivering voice said.

John’s eyes widened. “What was that?”

“You.”

“What?”

The ghost hesitated, but answered, looking directly at John. “Your worst fear coming true. Your mind’s not completely sure what is going on with reality. You still think I’m dead.”

John looked at him coldly. “You are to me. Sherlock isn’t.”

The man’s face turned impassive; all emotion was gone and replaced by an indifferent mask that sent shivers down John’s spine.

“Are you sure?”

Suddenly, pain shot through John’s head, thundering and throbbing like a storm, waves crashing sharply. He clenched his jaw tightly and squeezed his eyes; his hands shot up to his head. He let out a whimper as he fell to his knees.

John tried to breathe but found he couldn’t. His chest tightened as his body convulsed and began to tremble.

“W-what’s happ’ning?” He managed to grunt out.

“Just a seizure. You should expect a lot of these now.”

The pain came to an eerie halt; there still was the ghost of pain, but it became more and more like a numb than anything else.

“I—I feel…” John was at a loss once he found his voice. “I don’t understand, is this just a dream?”

“Simply, yes. This is just your subconscious.”

John haggardly stood up and faced the delusion. “Then you’re just the tumor. You’re not a ghost, Sherlock’s alive.”

“John.”

A voice behind him echoed in the darkness and John whirled around to find himself facing Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” John gasped and looked back at the hallucination, which was still there, watching him.

He looked back at the other figure. “You…”

Sherlock bowed his head, but he kept his eyes on John.

“I’m sorry John” The words clenched John’s chest, horrendously so that he missed the identicalness in the Sherlock figures apart from their expressions and tones. John began to whimper and his gaze grew blurry.

“No, this isn’t happening. There must be an explanation for this.” He mumbled as he once again fell to his knees and clutched his head. Darkness devoured his vision, swallowing him up until the tearless sobs came to a stop and silence prevailed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally, after about a minute of violent shaking, John relaxed to a halt. His eyes moved beneath his lids but he remained unresponsive to the medical staff. One peeked his eyes opened and flashed a light across his eyes. Sherlock could see they reacted, which was a good sign.

“What are we looking at so far?” A doctor inquired to the others.

“Moderate to Severe head trauma, concussed at the very least; he may need surgery to relieve any pressure. Bullet graze to the right thigh. Possible fractured ribs; abdomen is slightly rigid; he may have internal bleeding. He’s hypothermic and has a temperature at about 29 degrees.”

“All right, page someone for a neurology consult, and call CT and let them know we’ll be coming shortly. Let’s start by warming him up. And start a dose of atropine.”

“Yes doctor.”

“How’s his breathing?”

“Shallow but steady.”

“All right. We may have to intubate later.”

The nurse retrieved a think blanket and laid it over John’s chest. She got another and laid it below his waist and legs. Sherlock stared at the doctor and realized they didn’t know about the tumor. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words formed. A nurse attempted to lead him out the room, but he resisted.

“H-he has a brain tumor.” The detective finally managed to pipe in, his voice strained.

The doctor stilled and his eyes widened. After comprehending what Sherlock told him, he nodded. “Is he a patient of Dr. Shepherd’s?”

Before Sherlock could answer, Mycroft slipped into the room and stood behind the detective. “Doctor…” He raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“Hunt.” The man said.

“Dr. Hunt, Derek Shepherd won’t be working here anymore.” He stated as he eyed his brother.

The medical staff stared and remained silent, stunned.

“All right, then… page anyone from neuro, and get me his scans.” Hunt said.

“Yes sir.”

“Has he had seizures before?” Hunt directed at the detective.

“Y-yes, only one, a few days ago.”

Hunt nodded then brought his attention back to the blogger. Just as the nurse began leading Sherlock out, his blogger whimpered and shifted in the bed. Sherlock rushed towards his side, the staff allowing him without a word of protest.

“John. Can you hear me?”

The man whimpered again and kept his eyes clothes.

“He may not respond for a while. We won’t know how severe his brain injury is until we run some tests.”

Sherlock didn’t look up but nodded his head absently. The door opened and another person rushed in.

“What do we got?” She asked as she made her way to John and began examining the head wound.

“Dr. Grey, a bullet grazed his right thigh but it appears superficial. He has bruising along his abdomen and on his head he has a deep abrasion; may need surgery. And he has a brain tumor.”

“We need to get him to a CT. I have his scans here from his medical files; looks like he has an aneurysm right by the tumor and it may be bleeding now.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “Aneurysm?”

Dr. Grey looked at the detective. “And you are?”

“His friend.” Sherlock snapped, and then continued, correcting himself. “Partner.”

“I see. Well, these scans are from yesterday. From Shepherd’s notes, he was informed of this already. He didn’t tell you?”

Sherlock continued to stare at the doctor and shook his head briefly. Movement below caught his eye and looked down to see John staring up at him.

“John? Can you hear me?” Sherlock asked again.

The blogger blinked and stiffly nodded.

“Doctor Watson, I’m Doctor Grey. Do you understand me?”

John flickered his eyes to the doctor and nodded. He opened his mouth to speak but only a groan escaped his lips.

“You’re in good hands John. We need to run some tests but we may need to operate to take care of any bleeding. We won’t know for sure about any bleeding, but if you have surgery anyway, I need your consent to take your tumor out.” Grey explained reassuringly and provided a consent form in front of him.

John’s eyes widened and he pushed the form away. “No—. No don’t…please.” He begged. Sherlock gripped his hand.

“John, you need surgery. Sign the form.” The detective said.

John turned towards his direction, but his eyes turned unfocused and droopy. “B-but then I won’t see you again.”

Doctor Grey looked at the detective for an explanation, but she was ignored.

“You will, I promise you John, you’ll see me after.” Sherlock tried to keep his voice from quivering, but was failing drastically.

John shook his head, wincing from the sudden throb of pain shooting down his body.

Grey decided to interrupt. “Look, as long as your conscious, the decisions is yours. If you don’t sign this, then you’ll have to sign a ‘do not resuscitate form’. Do you know what that is?”

John slowly nodded.

“You can take your time in deciding. But if you become critical and unable to consent, before signing either form, I’ll have to consider your previous forms, from the first surgery.”

“But that was disregarded last time.” Sherlock stated to her, looking at her directly in hopes of John noticing the two talking. He didn’t.

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “We both know this tumor was going to kill me. It was j-just a m-matter of time. So let me go, all right? I’ll see you when…I’ll see you after. And you’ll be real. It’ll be Sherlock, not _you_.”

Sherlock gaped at John. “Me?”

John shot him a sympathetic look. “You’re just a-a ghost. You’re not really him. He’s in Heaven, I know he is...” For a moment John looked unconvinced, but continued trying to comfort the detective. “He has to be.” He said, his voice shaking.

“Oh John…”

“I love him, I love him so much...but I don't know..." John groaned, blinking his eyes to try to block out the pain. "...I don't know if he really loved me, maybe he did, but I'll go find out, so just let me go... please--." His voice was high and shook and his eyes began to droop close again.

 

"NO! John I'm alive. The hallucination isn't real, it’s gone! Just stay awake. You need to live so we can be together, like you said: we can be extraordinary together John—.”

The machine echoed with alarms as different numbers turned red and emergent. John’s eyes remained closed, and he didn’t respond to any of Sherlock or Grey’s calls.

The heart rate went flat into a long beep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John gasped as his surroundings formed around him, this time to a muted darkness that peeked with grayness. Only one Sherlock stood in front of him.

“I-I don’t understand.”

“You’re dying.”

“I know that! I thought—Sherlock, he…”

The hallucination sighed. “ _I’m_ here for you—.”

“Shut up!” John screamed. “Let me go back. That was Sherlock! You’re just playing with my mind. It isn’t funny anymore!”

“I never said it was fun.” The ghost snapped.

“I-I don’t want to be here.” John cried out.

“Why not?”

“I don’t belong here! This is just limbo; it’s nowhere.”

“If you decide to go, you’ll go to a place you call Heaven. If you want to leave, you can, but…”

“But?”

“It may be too late.” The hallucination’s face reformed to the look of sympathy.

“It’s not too late.” John claimed and closed his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s asystole. What’s his temp?”

“30 degrees.”

“Damn. Bag him, start compressions, and begin a central line of warm fluids. He can’t have surgery until his heart beats on its own and he is warm.”

“Grey, you got it here?” Hunt asked.

“Yes.”

Hunt left the room swiftly. A nurse attempted to direct Sherlock out of the room, but he shrugged her off harshly and stayed put. She turned away after shooting Mycroft a sympathetic look. The older man eyed his brother, who promptly avoided it.

“There isn’t anything you can do now, Sherlock. You have your own injuries that need taken care of. Let the people work, and give him some space.” Mycroft ordered unusually softly to his brother.

Sherlock stared at John’s limp form. The breathing tube was placed and John remained still and lifeless. The artificial beat pulsing and echoing in the room as the doctor continued with impressions was the only thing Sherlock’s mind was comprehending; it was just those man-made heartbeats that invaded his capacity, as well the image of John’s pale and bleeding body that remained in Sherlock’s vision.

Mycroft tugged on Sherlock’s arm, firm yet gentle. He didn’t budge. Mycroft tugged again, harder, and Sherlock finally, however clumsily, moved with his brother and out of the doors of the trauma room. He moved like he was asleep; things moved fast around him and became a blur quickly.

His brother placed him on a bed as a nurse came forward and began discarding his sodden clothing. The bullet graze on his neck had stopped bleeding and was clotting. The graze on his side was long forgotten about. Thundering silence invaded his mind and he jolted back to awareness, just as the nurse was discarding his clothes.

“I’ll bandage you up and give you some cleaner clothes. Do scrubs sound all right?

“That won’t be necessary.” Mycroft responded. “I’ll have some of his own clothes brought over.”

The nurse nodded in response and bagged the clothes.

“It looks like you…have a bullet wound in your shoulder.” She exclaimed. “It’s a…oh, just a through-and-through. You probably wouldn’t need surgery, not immediately at least. I’ll clean it and wrap it loosely, and then have a surgeon take a look, all right.”

Sherlock remained still. Mycroft nodded for him.

The nurse proceeded with care and soon enough, his shoulder was bandaged and placed in a sling. She began to clean the neck wound, but was interrupted.

“Do you mind giving us a moment? The rest of his wounds surely can wait.” Mycroft asked, or more like ordered with a rhetorical question.

“No problem.” She nonetheless smiled and left.

Mycroft eyed his brother again. “Derek Shepherd was taken care of. As for the other, Sven Moran, Sebastian’s cousin, I have people looking for him. He couldn’t have gotten far.”

“What was the connection?” Sherlock finally spoke, his voice barely over a whisper.

“There wasn’t any, not a paper trail at least. The only incrimination besides catching him in the act was payment transactions over the passed year that had no origin. Looking further into it, it was significantly above what he earned through his practice. He wasn’t smart enough to open a bank account over seas apparently. Besides, he confessed to everything.”

_“We’ll do it all. Everything.”_

Sherlock didn’t show any signs of comprehending to what was told to him.

“An hour ago, John thought I didn’t love him. I tried to tell him but he just didn’t understand.  And now _he_ —.” A choked sob escaped Sherlock’s throat but he clamped his hand over his mouth to keep himself from wailing. He still couldn’t find himself the exception to cry in front of his brother.

_“On our own.”_

“Now he could be dying and he still doesn’t know. It’s...ridiculous, this sentiment. But _why_ didn’t I say it? Why didn’t I—?”

_“We don’t need anything. Or anyone.”_

It was all too much; Sherlock wasn’t in control of his mind at the moment and reasons to keep it from crumbling seemed nonexistent. So he let go. Tears streamed out and down his cheeks as sobs wrenched their way out of his chest. He sobbed, uncaring of anything happening around him.

_“If I lay here, if I just lay here…”_

He didn’t seem to be ashamed with Mycroft discreetly wrapping his arm around his shoulder. Instead, he bowed his head as deep sobs penetrated the harmful silence and clutched at the sheets tightly in his fist, the other still clamped over his mouth. Mycroft stayed still, keeping his arm firmly in place and tightening it to assure Sherlock that it was okay. Just this once, it was okay to let go.

“He knows Sherlock.” Mycroft offered. “He knows deep down.”

Sherlock continued to sob, but they were muffled as he hand covered his mouth. Fresh tears leaked their way down and fell into his lap. He didn’t respond, just kept crying.

_“Would you lie with me and just forget the world.”_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John felt weightless surround him apart from his chest, which ached with a heavy pressure. He shifted and tried to dislodge whatever was on top of him but nothing moved. Darkness surrounded him, which he realized was because his eyes were closed. He peeked them open to whiteness. A sudden pain shot through his head as blood pounded in his ears but he didn’t hear his heart beat. He didn’t hear anything.

John opened his mouth and yelled, but no sound escaped. He opened his eyes wider but the white-hot pain only increased. He could barely make out a figure in front of him, but the unruly hair and prominent cheekbones were a giveaway.

“Sherlock?” A voice echoed in the darkness. It sounded like himself, but John’s mouth remained closed.

“You know what’s real. Just look, you’ll see.” Another voice answered but it sounded millenniums away.

“Is it really you?” John’s voice rang after it, uncertainty still there in spite of everything else.

“You can’t stay here.”

“I don’t want to.” His voice cried out.

 _Why didn’t I say it?_ Another trembling voice whispered in the distance.

“Sherlock?” John peeked his eyes open again and the pain throbbed sharply. Groaning, or at least trying to, John peered at the figure in front of him. It was fading, almost transparent now among the white. Before it could utter a word, it was gone.

Loneliness penetrated the atmosphere; John felt helplessness and sadness all at once, and it only greatened the pain.

“Go back to him John. Go back to Sherlock.” A voice whispered.

“Okay.” John said and closed his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the trauma room, John’s heart fell still as the doctor withheld the compressions.

“What’s his temp?”

“35 degrees.”

“He’s warm.” She sighed. The heart rate remained flat.

“And dead.”

Before another word was spoken, the door creaked open and Sherlock walked in, bandages covering his neck and his arm in a sling. He had changed into an old pair of pajamas and t-shirt while waiting for his own. His eyes and cheeks were red and wet, but no tears were falling.

_“I don’t quite know, how to say, how I feel.”_

“Try again.” He demanded in a whisper.

Doctor Grey looked at him with sympathy. “We did everything we could.”

Sherlock regarded her with fierce eyes. “No.” He said firmly. “No. Just—.” The firmness collapsed in his voice and he began to shudder, however tearless still.

Sherlock stumbled to the end of the bed and collapsed on top over John’s legs. His body shuddered as he buried his face into the blanket.

The room filled with silence as Sherlock’s sobs came to a shuddering end. What seemed like eternity, the medical staff hovered around the two; Mycroft remained in the doorway, all eyes focused on the detective and his blogger.

_“Those three words are said too much. They’re not enough.”_

A noise beeped once. Silence.

Then again. Then silence once more.

A couple of beats followed, and the eyes slowly made their way to the heart monitor.

John’s heart rate slowly rose, but it was there nonetheless. Sherlock stilled and looked up. He rushed forwards and stood closer to John’s side.

“He’s—he’s coming back…” Sherlock stuttered.

The medical team calmly hurried back to their places and Grey pressed her stethoscope to John’s chest.

“Do we have a heart beat?” Someone asked.

Grey remained impassive and silent for a moment.

“We do.”

The room sighed with relief. They sufficiently cleaned things up and left accordingly. The doctor checked John’s breathing and found he was trying to breath on his own.

“Stand back.” She directed at Sherlock who obliged.

A nurse assisted as she gently and slowly pulled out the breathing tube. John coughed weakly but remained unconscious.

“We won’t know his brain activity yet, but he’s breathing on his own which is…” She paused and looked at him with empathy. “It’s a very good sign.” She calmly explained to Sherlock. The detective merely nodded and stepped closer to John and interlocked their hands.

“We’ll run a CT and X-ray for his other injuries. As for the tumor, if he wakes up and is lucid, we’ll still need his consent. We can wait a little bit to give him some time, but the longer we wait, the more damage can occur.”

Sherlock nodded absently. She left the two alone, Mycroft following her out.

John was motionless in the bed, but his eyes were slowly moving beneath his lids.

“Jo-hn—.” Sherlock attempted to speak, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “John.”

The army doctor groaned softly but didn’t speak. He tilted his head towards Sherlock’s voice, as if expecting more.

“John.” Sherlock breathed. “I know you can hear me, just say something.” He pleaded.

“Mhm.” John groaned but kept his head towards Sherlock. Gradually, his eyes peeked open.

A blurry figure faced John, but he could still tell who it was. The unruly hair was more matted down as his vision cleared, and the ocean eyes were the first to come into focus. He felt a wave of warmth down his body—it was truly heart-warming.

John swallowed and tried to form a word but instead winced at the attempt. A weakly grin tugged at the corner of his lips and his eyes peeked up through his lashes.

Sherlock met John’s eyes. “I love you.” He blurted out. “Incredibly so my dear John.”

John’s cheeks colored just slightly, but his complexion improved by far. “I know.” He mouthed.

Sherlock’s smile widened. John’s hand squeezed the detective and tugged at it as much as he could. His eyes traveled to Sherlock’s lips for brief moment before meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward and kissed John, lips closed, but desperate for contact. John kissed him back as much as he could before Sherlock leaned away, although just slightly where he was still close to John that they’re noses where almost touching.

“I’m sorry.” John murmured.

Sherlock’s brows creased. “For what?”

“Dying.” John said simply.

Sherlock bit his lip and looked away briefly. “I was the one who started it.” He mumbled. This caused another grin to tug at John’s lips, and a quiet laugh escaped them.

“No more dying.” The man whispered to the detective.

A grin twitched on Sherlock’s lips and then settled down. “John you’re going to have the surgery right? I don’t want to force you but…” Sherlock looked back to his blogger.

“John?”

“Mhm?”

“Do you want the tumor out?” Sherlock asked, hoping like hell that John would say yes.

John cleared his throat. “Y-yes.”

Relief flooded the detective’s mind as he reached for the form and pen. John signed it as neat as he could managed and then sighed comfortably back in the bed.

“I’m s-sso tomato.” He mumbled. His brows creased slightly at what he said.

Sherlock leaned closer. “John?”

“Mhm?

“Why did you say that?”

“S-say what?”

“Tomato. John how’s your head?”

The army doctor’s eyes were half closed and still. The detective leaned and peered them open. They were dilated and unfocused.

“John?”

The man in question whimpered and opened his mouth to speak. “S-Sheryl?”

A panic sweat infiltrated the room; Sherlock called out to the doctor who had been hovering close by and immediately entered.

“What it is?” She asked as she hurried to John.

“Something’s wrong, he’s not—.”

“It’s normal to be tired after his heart stopping. He’ll probably fall asleep right about now.” She explained calmly.

“But his eyes are dilated. And he’s slurring his words.”

The doctor peeked John’s opened and indeed they were. John flinched at the light and so she quickened her analysis. She then took John’s hand in her own and squeezed gently.

“Dr. Watson, can you squeeze my hand?”

John shifted his hand but barely pressed down into Grey’s.

“What’s your vision like?”

John squinted his eyes towards Sherlock. “S’blurry…”

He suddenly tensed and tired to curl to his side. He stiffly turned his head just in time as he retched all over the floor. A nurse helped him settle back down as the doctor hurried to the phone nearby.

“Set up a CT and an operating room, we’re coming up now.”

Sherlock regarded her with an expectant look.

“It’s the tumor isn’t it?”

She looked at him with firm politeness. “It’s most likely the aneurysm starting to bleed. We’ll clip it and then take the tumor out. First we need to get him to CT now. Did he manage to consent?

“Yes.”

“Good, then let’s—.”

Suddenly John seized.

_No not again!_

Doctor Grey pushed Sherlock aside and aided John as he seized. It was quicker than the others, but as it lasted, Sherlock hovered by, panicking. It came to a halt and then Grey began preparing John for transport. “He can’t wait any longer! Let’s go!”

John was rolled out; the doctor and others rushed him down the hall and the last of John Sherlock saw disappeared behind elevator doors, leaving him behind in a room of blood and tears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bradycardic: low heart rate  
> atropine: keeps heart stable and lowers bodily fluids in mouth and throat to keep one from choking on saliva
> 
> if you have any questions/concerns/praise please comment, I absolutely love them :) and they keep me motivated
> 
> if you want to hear the song in a similar context, watch this and cry (contains spoilers to the show, not this) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFgk9PfjKF8


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, last chapter. I'm sorry it's late, but school has been hectic. I was going to have two more chapters, but then realized there's not much else to do and I don't want to drag it on. So here it is, please comment and let me know what you think of the whole story. I enjoyed writing this so much and love your comments. see end notes for my gratitude for those who commented.
> 
> I have a second fanfiction currently in progress, and it will be a 2 part series. I'm looking forward to that so keep your eyes opened; it will be posted around June/July. 
> 
> So without further ado, here is the final chapter :)

CHAPTER 13

 

_“At the end of the day, there are some things you just can’t help but talk about. Some things we just don’t want to hear. And some things we say because we can’t be silent any longer. Some things are more than what you say; they’re what you do. Some things you say because there’s no other choice. Some things you keep to yourself. And not too often, but every now and then, some things simply speak for themselves.” ~ Meredith Grey_

 

The heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm, echoing against the off-white walls. That was the first sound to enter John’s mind, slowly bringing him back to the conscious world. He felt heavy and tired—too tired to open his eyes right away—but he wanted to stay awake for a little while. His head and chest ached, and his side. He could smell the antiseptic, and could feel the bandage around his head. He secretly hoped they didn’t shave off all of his hair.

John’s surroundings slowly fall into place as he peeked his eyes open. The room was white, dull, machines by his bedside and the blinds closed over the window. He couldn’t tell what time it was but assumed it was daytime, as the outside hall echoed with soft orders and busy people.

A black lump of a coat was bunched up on a too small of a chair. The owner’s head lolled against his shoulder; his arms were wrapped around his knees, which were brought up to his chest. Sherlock was sound asleep, his face settled softly with tranquility and calmness as if all the boredom in the world had eased away. John grinned slightly as his vision grew blurry and he succumbed effortlessness into sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A heavy touch awakened John some odd hours later. The blinds were still closed, but edged with darkness, indicating it was well into the night. The black lump of the detective had moved closer to him, still in his chair but his feet were on the floor and his upper body was practically draped over the side of bed, overlapping John's arm. With a closer look, John could see a bandage over Sherlock’s neck, and another one peeking out of his collar, leading to his shoulder. The taller man’s face twitched as if dreaming but stayed asleep.

John felt more aware of his surroundings and didn’t want to go back to sleep anytime soon. He wanted to know what’d happened, since the last thing he clearly remembered was Sherlock getting shot in the neck. He remembered killing Moran, getting attacked by Sven, and then that’s when things started to blend together. There was a lot of darkness, coldness, and many faces of Sherlock. That reminder sent a shiver down John’s spine; he knew he saw the hallucination more than once that night. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t know how long he had been asleep. Was the surgery even successful?

Fear kept John from looking around the room right away, but he took a deep breath and looked anyway. Flowers were by the windowsill, an overnight bag lay in the corner, but other than that and the detective, the room was empty.

John exhaled utter relief and settled back against the bed. He shifted his hand out from under Sherlock and took the detective’s hand. He squeezed gently, not enough to wake him right away, and waited.

Sure enough, only five minutes passed before the detective shifted awake. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times, unaware of his blogger looking down at him. Sherlock shifted his head and tightened his hand interlocked with John’s, and appeared to be attempting at going back to sleep. John grinned at that thought but remained silent.

Sherlock kept his head on the bed and closed his eyes. Only a few seconds ticked by before he peered his eyes open and looked at John.

The detective’s head shot up as he looked over the man in the bed. “John?”

“Sherlock.” John whispered.

“How-how are you feeling?”

John’s lip twitched with a grin. “Fine. I‘m a bit tired and I have a headache but nothing too bad.”

Sherlock grinned slightly and squeezed John’s hand.

“How long, er, have I been…like this?” John asked softly.

“You’ve been asleep for a couple of days. After surgery, you were in and out of consciousness before the anesthesia wore off and you dozed off.”

John nodded and looked away. He wanted to ask, but his tongue felt thick in his mouth, keeping him from speaking. Sherlock noticed the uncertainty and answered for him.

“They got the tumor out, John. They got the whole thing, the doctor, Dr. Grey, she made sure it was all out.”

John snapped his eyes back to the detective and a grin slowly etched its way on his face. Utter relief washed over him and the grin turned into a smile. Sherlock beamed at him and squeezed his hand.

“You’re going to be fine.” Sherlock murmured, more to himself than to John. He lifted their intertwined hands and pressed a soft kissed onto John’s. John squeezed back and slowly gained his voice back.

“What happened to…” His brows furrowed.

“Shepherd?”

John nodded.

“Mycroft took care of him. He was just in it for the money. Moran’s accomplice escaped but he didn’t get far. It’s all over now.” Sherlock said with clear relief in his voice.

John hummed in response. “And you?”

“Mhm?”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine John. Just minor scrapes, nothing to worry about.”

John glared at him softly. “Getting shot in the neck isn’t minor.”

“It was just a graze.” Sherlock corrected.

“What about your shoulder?”

“You should eat something. I’ll call the nurse.” Sherlock said, clearly trying to deviate John off track.

John shook his head softly. “Not until we talk, Sherlock,” He said sternly, yet his voice was quiet. “I can see the bandage peeking out from your coat. What happened?”

Sherlock hesitated and gulped. “I got shot.”

John’s eyes widened. “You—how? When?”

“John,” Sherlock began. “What was the last thing you remember clearly?”

“Um, I saw Moran shoot you, then it’s just bits and pieces, but I remember killing him, and then his accomplice, Sven, took me to another room. And then…” John blinked rapidly and clenched his jaw.

“John.” Sherlock insisted. “I’ll tell you what happened but I need you to tell me what you remember.”

“So what, you’ll know and then leave some bits out?” John accused.

This time, Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Fine.” He said sternly. “I’ll tell you everything and then you can ask questions. I found you almost beaten to a pulp in an empty room. I dragged you away and Sven followed us; I jumped off the side of the boat and that’s when Sven fired his gun. I only got hit in the shoulder. It’s just a flesh wound, nothing serious—.”

“It’s a gun shot wound, Sherlock. It’s serious enough!” John interrupted, glaring at the detective.

“John take it easy you just had—.”

“Yes, yes I know.” He sighed deeply, slightly aggravated. “Continue.”

“I swam to the docks, and when I got there, you were just starting to be aware of your surroundings. You had been knocked around a bit; you were confused along the way and…” Sherlock looked away for just a second and then looked back up at John, but the blogger caught it.

“I was talking to it.” John stated.

Sherlock nodded slowly. “You—it was as if you couldn’t see me, or just chose to ignore me.”

John swallowed tightly and then waited.

“On the dock, Shepherd appeared from the corner and pushed you over. I talked with him until Mycroft appeared and he took him away. Then I jumped back into the water and pulled you out. I did CPR and you began to breath on your own but then, you became hypothermic and…god, John you were so cold I—.”

“Hey,” John tightened his grasp in Sherlock’s hand, and rubbed his thumb affectionately over it. “It’s okay Sherlock.”

John’s voice was lower, but his eyes were still open; he was beginning to feel tired again but wanted to get this over with.

Sherlock laid his other hand over their interlocked ones and continued. “Your body temperature wouldn’t raise fast enough and so your heart stopped. They eventually got it beating.”

“I remember that. I…remember talking to you and then…” John’s brows furrowed.

“And then the aneurysm began to bleed and you were rushed into surgery. You also suffered from internal bleeding in your abdomen but they fixed that while in surgery. The aneurysm wasn’t bleeding as much as they thought, so they clipped it and took the tumor out. There’s a high change, a very high chance that it won’t come back. They’re not sure why, but that is what they said.”

Sherlock was rambling on now, clearly distressed about the whole thing. But there was something else bothering him. John eyed his body, looking for any suggestions as to what and why.

A possibility struck his mind, and he feared it to be true as he asked. “Sherlock…”

“Mhm?”

“Did you…have you…” John bit his lip, afraid of what the answer might be. “Have you taken anything?”

“John what do you—oh.” Sherlock realized what he meant and closed his mouth. He met John’s gaze, who was looking at him with unease.

“No John I haven’t. I wouldn’t do that to you again.” The detective assured quietly but John could tell he was being honest, so he nodded.

“Good.” He grinned at his lover, but hesitated before continuing. He could sense something was still tense, but couldn’t think of what without asking. “Um, Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine John.” The detective responded softly yet strained, then blinked at the sudden change in tone. John blinked and raised his eyebrows skeptically. The detective bit his lip and withdrew his hand from John’s, falling protectively into his lap.

John shifted stiffly in the bed and nodded at the space he provided. Sherlock stood up without question and settled himself against his blogger’s side, carefully avoiding the various wires leading to the man’s body. He rested his head on John’s shoulder and draped his arm across his midriff. He snuggled into John’s neck and breathed deeply. John’s arm went underneath him and held onto his back, his fingers rubbing soothing circles in between his shoulder blades.

“I keep seeing you still—lifeless and…empty. Every time I close my eyes it’s—all I see.”

“It isn’t real Sherlock.”

“I know that.” The detective responded curtly. “I just…can’t see anything but—.”

John removed his arm around Sherlock’s back and brought both hands up and cupped the detective’s jaw. Sherlock looked up into John’s eyes; John could tell he was desperately trying to control his emotions, but he was failing—or _fortunately_ failing as John saw it, since it was a rare, opportune moment to see emotion across the “sociopathic” detective’s face.

He gently cupped the man’s jaw and rubbed his thumb affectionate over his cheekbone. “Sherlock I want you…to look at me. For as long as possible, look at me until your subconscious remembers that I’m right here.”

“How would that help?” Sherlock asked skeptically.

“It won’t right away. But it’ll help; in some small way it will help. Besides,” John leaned back against the pillow, trailing his hand into Sherlock’s curls. “How can anyone resist my face, apart from my shaved head.” John said proudly, only finishing slightly ashamed for the latter.

Sherlock leaned back against the blogger’s shoulder. “They only shaved part of it.”

“Great, so I will look even more ridiculous.” John said, attempting to lighten the mood.

“It’ll grow back.” Sherlock reassured and a grin twitched at his lips.

“So much for assuring me it’s _not_ ridiculous.”

“I never said that it was.”

“Exactly.”

The grin appeared on the detective’s face, and quickly became a smile, than a laugh. John joined with him, wrapping his arm back around the detective and holding him tight. Sherlock returned the affection and draped his arm over John’s chest, reaching only midway and intertwining with John’s free hand. They drifted off into exhausted sleep, their dreams intertwining but without death this time. The morning sun shined through the blinds. On the verge of sleep, John hummed to himself. It was nice to wake up to the sun shinning blessedly, with no thunder to shock one awake, with no nightmares sneaking up on the edges of sleep—even better to go back to sleep. It was perfect, and John couldn’t be happier.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two Weeks Later.

John leaned against the tub, lounging comfortably in the warm water. Sherlock settled in and leaned gently against him, avoiding both of their sore injuries, which were healing quite nicely. John had been discharged from the hospital yesterday morning, and immediately went to bed when they arrived back at the flat. He hadn’t had a proper wash in ages, and was finally feeling up to it this late morning.

John rested his arm on Sherlock’s shoulder and his other on the back of his neck, rubbing it soothingly. Sherlock hummed in content, his eyes lazily drooping closed as he basked in John’s affection.

The army doctor nuzzled his nose in Sherlock’s air and breathed him in. It was nice being back at the flat after spending days in the hospital. He was to take it easy for the next several weeks, but a bath didn’t hurt, nor did any cuddling. Sherlock seemed to enjoy it whenever he could. John could tell he was started to fidget with boredom, but the doctors ordered him rest too, and it was only John’s order in which Sherlock followed half-heartedly.

“Are you all right John?” Sherlock broke the silence. John only halted his movements for a fraction before containing with the same fondness.

“Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just you haven’t talked about it. About the hallucinations you had seen that night.” Sherlock responded. Clearly this had been on his mind for a while. John pondered for a moment as he continued snuggling with the detective. One of his arms draped across his front, lazily stroking the man’s chest. His other arm remained by his neck, rubbing soothing touches.

“I try not to think about them.” John replied in a soft tone, but Sherlock sensed a tense undertone hidden beneath.

“Have you had any more?” Sherlock asked. He feared the answer, but John simply shook his head gently.

“No.” He whispered. “You’d probably know if I did. But I haven’t.” The man reassured.

Sherlock sighed softly and remained silent, but John sensed a lingering concern, since the man’s back suddenly felt tenser against his.

“Sherlock?”

“Mhm?”

“Is there something else you want to ask?” John carefully pried.

Sherlock remained silent for a split second too long and John continued. “If you have any worries you can tell me. I want to know what you’re thinking.”

The detective tensed. John squeezed his arm around the man to assure him it was all right to say whatever was on his mind. He nuzzled his nose into his curly hair. “It’s all right Sherlock. Tell me.” He whispered encouragingly.”

“I…” Sherlock began, but paused to reshape his thoughts. “I just had a thought that…”

“Mhm, yes?” John encouraged gently, though his brows began to crease with concern.

“Well, just…” Sherlock stuttered. This was rare and unusual for the detective to not find his words—it wasn’t like him at all really. A sudden thought infiltrated John’s mind. These thoughts tended to creep in once in a while, so far about once a day since the hospital. The first one was the day after John woke up. He had been dozing off, when the atmosphere turned cold for no apparent reason, and he thought the worst possible that Sherlock, who was getting something to eat at the time, was in fact a hallucination, and the real Sherlock was dead. John had begun to panic, his breathing becoming shallow and quickening. Sherlock had walked in to find John clutching his chest and tears spilling out and streaming down his cheeks. He rushed forward and began rambling on how he was sorry he left for only a moment and that he was really here, alive and well. John had clutched onto him for hours; the tears slowly subsided and the sobs turned into ragged deep breaths. Eventually, John fell asleep in Sherlock’s arms, and woke up still locked in the embrace.

These attacks were normal regarding the circumstances, and supposedly expected according to Dr. Grey, however, whenever they invaded John’s mind, panic would quickly follow, and he would remain tense for a few hours afterwards.

Sherlock noticed what was happening right away. “I’m here John.” The detective began calmly. “I’m just uncertain how to phrase something, that’s all. It’s happened before.”

John remained tense and he closed his eyes as his breathing quickened. His embrace around Sherlock slackened and the detective twisted around in the man’s lap so he could see his face. He raised his hands and cupped John’s jaw; he rubbed his thumb against his cheek and held his mouth to the edge of his jaw.

“I’m right here John. Open your eyes.” Sherlock murmured against his skin.

John blinked his eyes opened into slits, peering through his lashes down at Sherlock. He took a slow deep breath and exhaled slowly after holding it in. The tension eased with it slightly; his shoulders sagged and the anxiety in his face slackened.

“I’m sorry.” John muttered under his breath.

“Don’t apologize John. It’s not your fault. Besides, the doctor said they should get better over time, if not soon.”

John just nodded.

“I was just thinking that—.” Sherlock began but cut himself off, uncertainly framing his face.

“It’s okay Sherlock. Tell me.” John encouraged as he got his force back. The detective nodded and rested his head against John’s shoulder.

“You won’t like it.” The man claimed.

John remained silent, knowing Sherlock would tell him anyway—not because he felt obligated to in order to please John, but because they both knew it’d come up again, since it would stay on Sherlock’s mind until discussed, whatever it was.

“I had a thought that…what if you...began to miss it. What if it’s not me you love but the hallucin—.”

John immediately tensed again, just as Sherlock expected. He slacked his hold on Sherlock and attempted to move away, but the detective wasn’t having it and wrapped his arm around John’s waist underneath the water.

“Don’t leave,” Sherlock began. “Please. It was just a thought. I know you love me John, but—.”

“If you know I love you, why would you think that?” John questioned bitterly, but he remained in the tub.

Sherlock remained quiet for a moment before answering. “I don’t deserve you John.”

John tensed and then brought his arm back around Sherlock’s front, and kept his other hand firmly over his waist.

“How can you think that Sherlock?” John asked softly. “You’re a genius, and yes, you can be _extraordinary_ difficult, a smart arse, and I love you because of that. I love you for who you are Sherlock. If that makes me an idiot then so be it.”

“You’re already an idiot.” Sherlock remarked lightly.

“Well than I’m a bigger idiot. I can’t live without you. That may sound incredibly tedious and ordinarily mundane, but it’s _incredibly_ true. I love you more than those three words can possibly describe.”

Sherlock remained silent and then slowly rested his head against John’s shoulder, snuggling his nose in John’s neck. John tilted his head back and pressed his lips against the man’s temple, lingering for a moment.

“This will always be overwhelming to me, John. But I won’t have it any other way. I won’t let you go, no matter what. I know that’s selfish,”

“But it’s you.” John finished for him, grinning.

Sherlock grinned. “If aspect more sublime, this blessed mood is a mystery to me. You always surprise me John Watson. You’re very heart-warming, very…”

“Romantic?” John teased lightly.

“Oh not that again.” The detective sighed. “The heavy dullness of this unintelligible world is lightened simply by your presence in my life, even despite your naïve associations with romantic sentiments. You anchor me John, you guide me as a conductor of light, guardian and keeper of my heart.”

John tightened his embrace and rested his cheek against the man’s head of curls. His eyes prickled with tears but he blinked them away. “Did you seriously just quote Wordsworth?”

Sherlock peered up with an innocent look in his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said with a straight tone, yet his lips twitched with a promising grin.

John smiled and leaned down to meet his lips. They kissed languidly at first, but the warmth of the water and chillness of their mouths sent shivers and sparks down their bodies, and the kiss turned passionately hot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Freshly dressed, John walked into the kitchen and prepared the kettle for tea. Sherlock walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist and rested his chin on his shoulder. He breathed in John’s scent, capturing a lingering scent of antiseptic.

“You may need another bath. You still smell like the hospital.” Sherlock stated, a tinge of disgust in his tone.

“It’ll go away eventually. I had meant to take a decent wash but with you joining me, it turned far more leisurely than I planned.” John teased as he leaned into Sherlock’s hold.

Sherlock hummed contently and grazed his lips against John’s neck. The kiss lingered and then the taller man gently nipped at the skin, sucking only for a moment before tenderly licking the area and leaving it with another kiss.

“If you continue at that I’ll never get me tea.” John murmured, but turned around anyway and met his lips with the detective’s. They kissed for several moments before the kettle whistled and they reluctantly broke apart, or rather John did, leaving Sherlock bemused and flushed. John giggled softly and continued making his tea.

Sherlock stood where he was behind the blogger and affectingly nuzzled his nose into John’s hair, carefully avoiding the light bandage over the surgical scar.

John blushed. “I never deemed you to be such a snuggler.” Sherlock backed away just a fraction.

“Is that a problem?” The detective asked lightly.

“Not at all.” John reassured. “It’s kinda of romantic, for you at least.”

Sherlock scoffed and wandered off into the sitting room, however a smirk tugged at his lips. “I’ve said it before John, you’re the romantic, not me.”

John grinned to himself and followed the man until he was behind him, brushing his nose against his shoulder affectionately. It was a foil of their characters—normally Sherlock was catlike, as shown moments before, but John had grown a liking to affectionate touches, and no one was complaining.

“Is that so bad?” He teased gently.

“Being a romantic? It’s utterly naïve but…”

“But?”

The detective turned around and looked down at his lover. “It’s you.”

John tilted his head up and looked at Sherlock. “Apparently it’s rubbing off on you.”

Sherlock huffed a sigh of annoyance, but John knew he was flattered, even just a little bit. He tilted his head up just a bit higher, indicating clearly what he wanted. Sherlock, without question, claimed his lips with his, starting out soft and closed, but passion rose and John opened his mouth, inviting Sherlock in. They kissed for several moments, before an awkward cough interrupted them.

The pair broke apart and Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the door.

“Bad time?” Lestrade asked, his eyes darting around the flat.

“The most appropriate.” Sherlock remarked. John turned around and attempted to step closer to the inspector, but Sherlock placed a hand over his lower back, so he remained still.

“So you’re together now?” Lestrade remarked. Sherlock opened his mouth for a retort but the man’s next response interrupted him. “About time.”

Sherlock scoffed softly. “Go away now—unless,” The detective stood straighter and eyed the inspector. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t deduce that yourself?” John teased.

“A case.” Sherlock stated.

The inspector looked baffled. “Three bodies in one week, no connection to each other, but they were murdered the same way, located in similar locations. But we have nothing to go on.”

“Oh I wouldn’t say that.” The detective murmured as he stepped away from John and reached for his coat. “Go ahead, we’ll follow. Text me the address.”

Lestrade muttered thanks and hurried off. John remained standing, a grin forming on his face. Sherlock tied his scarf and peered at his lover. “Would you be coming with me? You should rest, but…” He asked, concern honestly in his voice.

John’s brows furrowed slightly. “I should be.”

Sherlock stepped to his blogger, handing him his coat. “Ready then?”

John looked up and smiled. He peeked a kiss to the detective’s cheek. “I’m right with you.”

_When tragedy strikes, when old habits break loose, when an assassin wants to kill you, you’ll do whatever you can to protect the ones you love. They’ll understand. It’s afterwards, after they’ve understood and realize that you’ve changed. You’re not the person you once were, and neither are they. The time apart triggered what was lost, and the reunion brought it all back together. So maybe being alone isn’t such a bad thing. Because maybe, at the end f it all, once the drugs wear off, once the voice in your head is long gone, there’s no way to go but forward, together. Maybe that’s romantic, or maybe that’s just life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I wrote the last monologue in the end)
> 
> A big thanks to the following who commented and made my day:)
> 
> mafm, alicia, harry, emily, Fandom_Fan, Lil, allthatulovewillbecarriedaway, Cherazz, Jem, Talia, FoolishAngel1987, Katilyn, and edil. Thank you all and everyone else whose been sticking with the story. A big thanks to greenjello94 who has been kind to edit each chapter and constantly dealt my endless ranting on writers block--thanks sis!
> 
> By all means, if anyone wants to draw any fanart inspired by it I will love you forever.
> 
> see my tumblr maeerin.tumblr.com for any updates on future works. Thank you so much!!

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any edit mistakes. This is my first time using archive and am still getting used to it. Hope you enjoyed it and let me know what you think! Stay tuned on my tumblr for updates.
> 
> ~Em


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